


Cultstuck!

by elanor_pam



Series: Cultstuck [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe, Blood, Gen, Gore, Harm caused to self, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Vomiting, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas is a 6 sweeps old troll with a secret so big it could shake the very foundations of the Alternian Empire. But now the purrbeast is out of the bag, and the heretics who follow the teachings of his Ancestor rush to send their Messiah to the safety of a planet so distant, it knows nothing of Alternia.</p><p>Meanwhile, Karkat hates his life and these stupid old squatters and his ancestor and pretty much everything there ever was in the world of forever. <i>Platonically.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. > Be Karkat

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [Kaossparrow](http://kaossparrow.tumblr.com/), who's been beta-ing this project into shape by means of countless comma-ectomies and re-wordings. Thanks to her, the sentences are 30% shorter and general reading flow has improved by roughly 45%! Percentages pulled straight out of my ass.
> 
>  
> 
> Pairings and warnings will be added as they come.

You are Karkat Vantas.

The purple moon has long gone past its zenith, and the green moon is only halfway over the horizon; Alternia's craggy plant life and tortured plains are painted in colorful shades, and a rare poetic soul might find the scenery beautiful. Hell, even you sometimes stop to take in the sights, if you’re in a good enough mood.

You are, in fact, in somewhat of a good mood. Sadly you also happen to be weaving your way underground back to your hive through one of the many secret tunnels built by an ancient cult thousands of sweeps ago, making you completely unaware of the beautiful spectacle of colors taking place outside. You're also in a bit of a hurry, so maybe you wouldn't have stopped to watch the moonrise this time anyway.

But today was a good day. You went to your best friend's hive one or two nights ago - it's hard to separate one night from another in this season - and had a good time, or as good a time as it's possible to have with a blithering junkie slipping on and off his sopor high. You napped with him in his 'coon, keeping him company for the short-lived morn when his custodian failed to show up. Then you sat with him for hours on a sandy dune overlooking the beach, grousing about nothing in particular with his head on your lap as you watched the horizon for his lusus and felt the waves push and pull at the blood in your veins.

From a safe distance, of course. From as safe a distance as would allow you to feel the prickly, stingy droplets and smell the salty wind. You're afraid a sea-dweller may have spotted you once, and since then you've done your best to stay the hell out of their sight.

Gamzee has been hells of understanding.

  
  


Now, though, you're stalking past the faded frescoes of half-forgotten prophecies, trying to think of a good excuse to give your lusus for taking so long to come back -- "Gamzee had the shakes" has been misused one too many times. He might not believe it again, even though it’s technically true.

You hunch a little more into your own shoulders and sigh. Progress on Gamzee's sopor slime addiction hasn't been all that great lately, and when you left his hive he was snarfing a green pie with just a little bit too much ferociousness. He barely held on for five minutes, staring up at you with eyes too bright, too focused, mumbling that he really, _really_ needed that pie - but the real, non-addled Gamzee was there, closer than ever, as close as the sloshing waves you'd been watching, and you allowed yourself to be a complete mush and hug his lanky and stumbling self all the way back through the heavy sand, patting his hair and telling him how strong and brave he was and how close he was to being okay.

As you climb the uneven steps that lead to the back of your thermal hull, you make plans for the next visit. Gamzee will probably regress a little, he always does, but maybe you'll take Tavros along to give him an extra incentive--

Oh hey, there's a red flag sticking out of the thermal hull's bottom.

  
  


If someone were to ask you what the flag was about, you'd say it was a little thing you came up with to train your lusus, which is a lie. You'd also say that it helps him convey the kind of complex ideas most Custodians can't normally express, which is true. Depending on who was asking, you might even add that the colors and shapes of a flag had different meanings, and that the red one was a pretty personal sort of flag.

The flags are mostly ripped curtain strips and the shapes can be kind of hit-and-miss, but you are pretty good at deciphering them by now. This appears to be a "not home" kind of flag, with a little bit of "be safe". You pointedly refuse to acknowledge a surge of affection; after going all pale over Gamzee you simply will not allow yourself any more mushiness for at least a sweep.

You pick the flag to take a closer look and promptly captchalogue it into your stupid Encryption Modus. God _fucking_ DAMNIT.

You let your card vault tumble noisily down the rough stairs, and show it a finger for good measure. No wonder you're always running out of curtains; this must be the thousandth flag and the thousandth card you’ve lost to your modus.

With a huge show of huffiness to the faded scripture you're surrounded with, you raise your nose, unlatch the back of your hull, and are immediately greeted by a huff of cold vapor in the face. You crawl onto a shelf and push a box of chilled roe cubes out of your way, awkwardly bolting the hull from the inside before pushing the front door open. After some more maneuvering you manage to turn your butt to the front and get your feet under you, jumping out of the freezing trap without issue.

This arrangement would bother most trolls, but you're okay with it. You're okay with lots of things that happen to keep you alive.

Before closing the hull you pull out a boxed leaf juice, and push the door shut with your hip while you fumble with the straw. You thoughtfully suck the bitter drink and consider introducing Tavros to the tunnels; it'll definitely beat pushing his four-wheel device over miles of desert. You'll probably have to run it through the geezers first, though--

And then you turn around and spot the Threshecutioner standing stock-still in the middle of the overturned mess of your food preparation block, the Threshecutioner who's probably been standing there long enough to watch you crawl butt-first out of your _super-secret illegal escape tunnel_.

You stand there like an idiot, straw limp in your lips as you take in the sickle and the black uniform and the green sign and the sheer fucking height of this kid who's clearly a couple of sweeps older than you, old enough to have some color in his eyes even -- and your mind goes, welp. This is it.

And then the greenblood sinks to his knees and lowers his torso until his forehead is touching the floor, and your mind goes _oh fuck NO_.

You _hate_ zealots.


	2. > Karkat: freeze like a tool

You are Karkat Vantas.

You are standing frozen in the dismantled remains of what was once your meal preparation block, and there's a green-blooded Threshecutioner prostrate in front of you.

"Um," you say, inching back until your shoulder hits the thermal hull's door.

"Lower than the lowest," intones the young Threshecutioner, his voice betraying just the slightest hint of tremulous fervor, and you want to roll your eyes despite the discomfort that's settling heavy in the pit of you stomach. "Higher than the highest..."

"Stop," you say, and find yourself raising both hands in a placating gesture before it even occurs to you that he might take offense to being interrupted. "Look," you hesitate, the juice box sloshing as you move your hand, "Don't, okay? Just... you don't have to say all that shit, it's way too fucking long."

You press back against the door when the Threshecutioner raises his head — he's young, probably part of the newest training batch, yet to step off the planet — but he's looking at you with wide adoring eyes, lips parted in a tiny little smile, and it's just plain embarrassing.

"So," you interrupt the awkward silence, "why are you here? What do the geezers want?" But suddenly you remember that no, the geezers would never send someone to you in plain sight, they were all bugfuck bonkers but they had a method and they'd never put your location at risk like this—

"You were discovered," says the greenblood, lowering his head back to the floor almost mournfully, and you fucking _knew_ it but it still comes at a shock. "You were spotted by a sea-dweller during a moment of communion—"

Great and almighty thinkpan-hemorrhaging _fuck_ , is that what they call it? _Seriously!?_

"—and my unit was sent to cull everyone in your hive and near it—"

A strangled moan comes scratching out of your throat. It might be a curse, but you really can't tell through the sudden, high-pitched keening in your auricular channels. The juice box topples out of your numb fingers and you grasp your head with both hands, pressing your back even harder against the thermal hull, because the world suddenly started listing sideways.

"—but your lusus sent out a warning and most escaped in time," says the greenblood, still staring intently at the floor an inch from his sniffnode, and your body spontaneously sags down like a sack of bricks. Your blood pusher thuds against your auricular sponge clots, and you blink back the sudden burning in your eyes. It's probably safe to cry in front of this guy, but you'd still rather not.

You take deep steadying breaths. _That's_ what the flag meant — your lusus managed to escape in time, it was out of the hive and safe. Somewhere else. You'll have to get that card back and see if there was anything more to it.

"My commander personally combed through every block of your hive for passages," continues the greenblood. You really wish he'd stop talking with his nose against the floor; the grovelling always makes you uncomfortable. "When he was done I was ordered to await your arrival while my squad searched the surrounding hives."

You nod to yourself and rest your forehead against your knees. Now that the mass-culling induced spike of horror has diminished, you're starting to feel pretty damn panicked about your own situation. You can't step out of your hive because it’s most likely surrounded by hungry little eyes, and your neighbors are probably having their own living quarters ransacked even as you sit here - and woe be to any who couldn't escape in time. You still have the apparently undiscovered passage behind your hull, but—

No. Going back to Gamzee — or to anybody else, really — is out of question. Anyone who knows you is a target. Your one remaining choice is to crawl into the Followers' catacombs, where the wrinkly old squatters will attempt to spoon-feed you their religious bullshittery forever, and despite the very real danger you're facing you are _not_ looking forward to it.

But you're looking forward to being culled even less, so you'll just have to endure their constant scriptural bickering until they think you're ready to stroll out and proselytize to the peasants, somehow causing the Apocalypse. You're not looking forward to that either.

"So..." you mumble, trying to sound a little more forceful, or messianic, or at least less like a terrified wiggler, and failing miserably. "What now?"

"You will be sheltered in the Dark Hive," says the other troll. "The Grand Elder has planned for this eventuality. And after my body is found—"

"Your _what!?_ " you choke out in a burst of spittle.

The greenblood's shoulders twitch, and it almost looks like a flinch. "After it is found, you will be sent to where the empire can't reach you," he continues, as dispassionately as if he were speaking of leaving behind a scrap of cloth. When he goes on, though, his voice has just the slightest edge of urgency. "Nearly all passages have been found, even the one you came in from. You were expected back, and I'd be culled anyway for failing to apprehend you. But planting my corpse will lead the Empire into believing we have a fearsome ally—"

"That's a _bullshit_ plan!" you spit out, jumping to your feet in a surge of angry energy, your previous terror forgotten. "What the hell are those bastards _thinking!?_ Isn't it enough that all my neighbors are in the culling row, you have to add your own color to the shitty murder picture? All to make the highbloods think we’re _stronger_ than we actually are!? _This is the most bulge-kickingly awful plan I've ever had the dubious privilege of having my auricular sponge clots assaulted by._ "

The greenblood raises his head at your outburst; his eyes meet yours, his pupils dilate, and then he slams his face back into the cement with a dry thud. You pointedly do not think of it.

"Look," you say, squeezing the bridge of your nose, "just... forget the shitty plan and come along with me. You're already a—" you hold back your distaste for the word "—a _Follower_ , so you could just, I dunno, hide in the catacombs with the others. It'll suck hoofbeast teat, yeah, and you'll be surrounded by scripture _forever_ , for which I can't even begin to apologize, but at least you won't be dying for the hell of it!"

You watch as the older troll's shoulders shake, as his hands tense against the floor and he turns his head just very slightly to and fro. God, he's _squirming_ \- fuck, what's there to be so torn about? Unless this poor kid also dreamed of being a threshecutioner his whole life and doesn't want to live forever in hiding either, in which case he really should just chop off your head and get on with his life, and you can't believe you're actually thinking this—

You're just really fucking sorry for this kid. You have no idea how new believers are converted, but it must involve an awful lot of manipulation you just don't think you're okay with.

But suddenly the young threshecutioner sits up on his heels, back straight, shoulders squared; he stares straight into your eyes, and the fucker was actually _crying_ , his face blotched with green. But he's smiling, and it’s - it's a good sort of smile, it's actually a pretty brilliant sort of smile, and you find yourself tentatively smiling back.

"I won't die!" he says, voice cracking high as a wiggler's, and you freeze until his shoulders finally sag. "But you still need to leave," he adds. "And we can't be seen together."

"Oh," you let your own shoulders sag in relief. It seems the guy is willing to talk with _you_ -you, not just second-coming-you, and that's a welcome change. "So what's the plan?"

He spontaneously produces a ton of captchalogue cards, placing them carefully on the floor in front of you. You've always hated the laying-shit-at-your-feet thing, but when he sits back he's still staring directly at your face without fear of your Sufferer-ness and smiling that small, undecipherable little smile. You crouch down to examine the cards and—

ohmyfuckingGOD—

The top one is an _Array Fetch Modus_.

Your feelings must be written all over your face, because the other troll grins shyly and hunches into his shoulders like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to witness you being sylladex-inept. You try not to grin back as you empty it out—

Except you need to hack your thrice-bedamned sylladex before you can eject anything. Of-fucking- _course_.

You promptly give up and resign yourself to holding a handful of Encryption Modus cards mixed with a fuckton of Array Modus cards. The guy is just watching your sylladex shenanigans like it's the most fascinating thing in the world; he doesn't even offer help or anything. Goddamn zealots.

"Anyway," the troll starts, shoulders tense as if he’s still not sure he was allowed to look at you, "you must take corridor number 12. It's the only one— one of the only ones they didn't find. I'll leave in passage number five after I close yours and make preparations for, for my new... plan," he says, lowering his head solemnly. "Our paths will probably not cross again after this."

You nod gravely, suddenly feeling like a Troll on a Mission.

"Now go," he says, pushing the air with his hands as if trying to push you by proxy. "Hurry!"

You nod again, and nearly run for the stairs to your respite block — but then you suddenly remember one thing, run back to your thermal hull, wrench the door open, unlatch the lock on the back, slide belly-down over the middle shelf, knock all the chilled roe cubes down the passage’s stairs, and trip your way down until you reach the card vault you abandoned there.

You raise it in triumph, and then spot the greenblood staring wide-eyed at you from beyond the frosty shelves.

You feel an irrational need to justify your jumping around when you see his face. But he just smiles indulgently at you without a trace of judgment in his eyes, and you feel like an overgrown wiggler just kind of scurrying around in the middle of a life and death situation while a threshecutioner is trying to save your life — so you crawl back with all the dignity you can muster, and give your new ally a very serious-business nod before scurrying up the stairs for passage 12.

There aren't really twelve passages in your hive. Most of them are older than the current Mother Grub and you have no idea what the numbering scheme even is; when you built your hive, though, your nosy little minders went and chose a location for you where six hidden paths happened to stray close to each other, and when you were finished they secretly modified your walls to connect to them. Passage 12 just happens to be the one cleverly hidden behind your wash basin.

You run into your room, captchalogue your desktop computer and scoop up a handful of movies thrown carelessly on the floor. Your posters are shredded to pieces, your recuperacoon is shattered and there's slime all over the place; you trip and slide your way into your hygiene block to find your load gaper overturned and your ablution trap roughly ripped off the floor, with pipe water spraying all over the walls and you in a misty shower...

But the wash basin is still in place — it simply doesn't look big enough to conceal a passage even a young troll could squeeze through. In fact, it looks rather purposefully incapable of hiding anything.

You pull down the window latch, and it does exactly what it's supposed to do, which is fail to open. Only then do you turn back to the basin, carefully sliding it out along with a square section of the wall while the greenblood hovers at the entrance.

Vriska only wishes she had a hive as cool as yours.

You climb down the rickety ladder and dust rains down on your hair as your new friend pushes the heavy basin back into place. The light is cut off; your slimy shoes splash onto a fairly sizable puddle when you reach the bottom — leakage from the nearby water trap — and you walk carefully on the uneven ground until your eyes adjust.

Then you break into a run.


	3. > Be the Greenblooded Threshecutioner

You are a greenblooded threshecutioner cadet, and also a Follower of the Forbidden Teachings of the Signless.

The fact that you are part of the unit sent to cull the Signless Reborn can only be described as His Providence. You see no need to even be contacted by the Elders; your purpose is clearly to ensure the Descendant of Suffering's survival at any cost.

In fact, by the time their messenger arrives, you've already planned how to eliminate your fellow cadets the fastest way. They're all as inexperienced as you are, and with the extra training you received from the Elders you are sure you'll be able to kill them all, even your commanding blueblood, before succumbing to the inevitable wounds.

The message, however, outlines a wider-spanning strategy clearly superior to yours — a Plan which requires cunning and self-sacrifice rather than force of arms, a plan truly worthy of the followers of the Sufferer, and you are a vital part of it.

You are provided with endless amusement as you drop hints and suggestions in hearing range of your slow-witted commander, leading him to conclusions which he believes are his own. You never thought you'd use your Conversion Rhetoric lessons to lead idiots by the nose, but it's unexpectedly fun.

Sure enough, you are categorically ordered to stay behind in case the _mutant_ comes back, and told in no uncertain terms to close all the passages back so the _mutant_ will have no suspicions, and you make a face and drawl "yes, sirrrrrrrrr" with as much grudging obnoxiousness as you can fake while your commander sneers victoriously at you. You huff and puff petulantly in a display of impotent rage, and the other troopers snicker at you as they step out of the hive.

Soon you are left alone in the ransacked relaxation block, standing among the spill of multimedia crap normal young trolls usually surround themselves with. It does not even occur to you to question why the Carrier of Blood would bother with such mundane trappings; he has to fit in and play the part if he is to live among the people he’s fated to both save and destroy.

You climb to his hygiene block to check up on passage 12, but can't help stopping by his respite block on the way back down. You take in the half-smeared scrawls which cover the walls top to bottom, and the gaps where the ripped posters littering the floor were once pasted on. They're everywhere, angry multicolored spiked letters overflowing with all-consuming rage and all-encompassing pity, mysterious symbols and floating words and barely readable messages to people whose names you had to hastily rub or rip out so they wouldn't be targeted.

You knew about the writings before ever coming in. Apparently pictures of his respite block's walls are constantly taken as the Elders attempt to keep up to date on his visions, but they are among the Greatest of Mysteries and only allowed to be studied by Masters of the highest level. The Elders also speak widely and proudly that once during a Lesson in the Dark Hive the Child went into a Holy Trance and wrote Prophecies on the Mural depicting the Fourth Sermon with a Fluorescent Pink Marker, Yes That One On The Dais. To be surrounded by such Holy Writ is an honor, even if they don’t make a lick of sense to your barely initiated self.

You allow yourself a few minutes of contemplation and prayer before moving back to action. You close the passages, set traps back into place. You find the desperate message left by the Future Savior's lusus carelessly dropped inside the hull, completely ignored by the culling party, and arrange for it to peek from the bottom of the hull's back entrance as an extra warning. Clearly that was the passage he was expected to come in from; you stand back and wait, blood pusher pounding arrhythmically at the prospect of meeting your savior face-to-face.

You've spoken to some of the lucky few who have laid eyes on him. They all failed to give you a proper description, paddling and groping at the air with uncertain hands, lips opening and closing like confused sea-dwellers, their gazes distant as if picturing a color they had no name for. Eyes would grow misty; more than one dissolved into sniffling. They all described an unexplainable surge of protective, pitiful feelings.

You are still unprepared for the little figure which carefully crawls out of the thermal hull.

He is... blunt. No, rounded. _Soft_. There is not a single edge to be seen on him, no sharp ends. He is thin and round-faced, swimming in a baggy sweater, slouching slightly as he pulls out a beverage from the passage he just came in from with movements both careless and contained, graceful and subtle.

He’s _harmless_. Harmless and defenseless and so very, very soft and young and breakable, so much so that a part of you desperately wants to touch, to make sure he is real and _safe_. Suddenly you know why the Dolorosa chose a mutant wiggler over her prestigious duty. How could she not? How could anyone wish harm on a creature that inspires such intense feelings of pale pity?

The thought that the Sufferer had been tortured and executed for his teachings had once been a tragic but inspiring tale. Now, though, the knowledge that the Highbloods callously caused this child's previous incarnation so much pain sickens you to the core. Never before have you felt so strongly for the movement you're a part of; only now do you fully comprehend the vastness and righteousness of the mission you were given.

The Night of the World finally turns to you, his widening eyes lingering on your uniform — he doesn't know you're on his side, he was not warned of your arrival — and then he relaxes in quiet resignation.

You feel absolutely wretched. You drop to your knees and lower your face to the floor, knowing that you are unworthy of gazing upon him. You start to intone the prayer which comprises his True Name; he swiftly interrupts you, reassured of your harmless intentions, and softly chides you for wasting precious time with such frivolities.

His wisdom is truly vast.

He inquiries as to the reason for your presence, and you regretfully inform him of the dire circumstances. A moment of Communion was witnessed by an unfriendly sea-dweller, who immediately sent out warning of his existence. Your squad was ordered to cull all those in his and surrounding hives - and when he lets out a sudden, mournful cry, you quickly assure him that they escaped. It appears to minimally calm him down.

You peek at him from your supplicant position. He's sitting on the floor, his visage one of deep contemplation. He inquires as to the current plan.

He then vehemently disagrees with the plan.

Surprise makes you raise your eyes, and you witness his holy rage in action as he forcefully refuses to sacrifice your life - as if, as if, and you can barely even finish the thought, but it's as if he truly, genuinely, _personally_ values an existence he wasn't even aware of a few minutes ago.

It's more emotion than a troll can handle. You hurriedly lower your head back down, all sorts of nameless feelings roiling inside your blood-pusher cavity. Romance beyond quadrants is an ideal all Followers strive for, and what you're feeling right now is strange and soft and wonderful and it must be heretical to even think of it this way but you feel so stupidly blessed to even be this close to a divine revelation—

Above your head, the Sufferer’s Scion innocently insists on your escape together, offers you a position as one of the Hallowed Guardians of the Scripture, and tears escape your eyes unbidden as you shake your head to yourself. It's not possible, of course, even if you were somehow deserving of such honor — your death is the cornerstone of the Plan, after all. But you really should not have expected the Comforter of the Weeping to accept this fact. Mentioning the Plan at all was a mistake.

There's only one thing to do. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and lie to your Savior.

It's criminal and sinful, but he looks so happy that you'd be glad to damn yourself a thousand times over.

==========>

You push the section of wall hiding passage 12 back into place, until it's completely camouflaged among the exposed building units of the hygiene block. A muffled _clang_ signals that both the lock and the corresponding trap have been activated. You step back, and with your nails you write a coded message on the wash basin's underside - a collection of completely random scratches to the untrained eye. With that, the main bulk of your work is done.

You make your way slowly down the stairs, stopping every now and then to scratch the walls in wide strokes with your scythe, more messages to be mistaken for the signs of battle. Followers who are about to die usually write or sing psalms describing His Righteous Fury, His Foretold Return and the Punishment of the Wicked, but you just don't feel any of that right now; instead, you write sections of lighter cantos and praises for the Sufferer's Compassion. You have, after all, witnessed it first-hand.

That done, you pull out one of the two items you were given when informed of the plan. It's a vial containing a mix of the blood of several elders, donated for this specific purpose, and that of some of the lusii from the Cult's breeding program. You raise it to the light to admire the shade. It's most likely not the correct one, but it should be enough to fool your targets.

You sprinkle it in one single, discreet spatter on the floor, and then carefully coat the blade of your sickle. Not too much blood, just enough to make it look like you managed one lucky hit. The rest of the beautiful bronze hue is drained at the meal preparation block, its vial washed and smashed among the remains of other breakables.

You decaptchalogue the other item you were given, a Cavalreaper's lance with its handle encased in a block of ice. This particular model, despite being one of the best, has long since been forbidden and pulled out of production. Its color and design as well are sure to give pause to any long-lived member of your race. It is, in fact, a replica, but a perfect one made by Alternia's best metalworker, and no one who sees it would ever doubt its authenticity.

You set it onto its frozen base at the bottom of the stairs, its sharpened point turned to the ceiling.

The next part is going to be a little tricky. You climb the stairs, measuring your position in relation to the deadly weapon. You feel a pang of fear which you promptly bury. You attempt to assuage your doubts by mumbling more cantos under your breath, and are mildly successful.

You jump onto the lance, arms spread, chest exposed. Your aim is perfect, and the absurdly sharp tip goes straight through your chest. Your death is nearly instantaneous.

The sudden impact of your weight onto the lance breaks the block which held it up; shards fly every which way, along with your sickle. Hours later they'll be fully melted, and it will not occur to anyone that any ice might have ever been involved in the grisly scene of your murder.

No, all that your blue-blooded commander will see, when your confused and terrified squad mate finally convinces him to personally check your body, is a Threshecutioner murdered by the Summoner's very own lance.

He will not recognize it, but the off-planet aristocracy will, and the pictures sent by the legislacerator on case — of brown blood on your sickle and a discontinued lance design — will make the whole empire _flip the fuck out_.

It will buy your cause precious time.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! I had so much fun writing this guy, I'm almost sad to see him go. But now you have a portrait of the average cultist. There's a reason Karkat isn't comfortable around them...


	4. > Karkat: Run down the wet tunnel.

Your feet kick up mud as you race down the narrowing passage, spattering your pants with gritty coldness. Your hand touches a trickling wet trail on the wall, and you can smell the cool humidity of the underground water reservoir which poises ready to flood the tunnel as soon as the trap by the wash basin is set off.

Sweat trickles under your clothes, an itchy, maddening trail over every ridge of your torso, and you slap your sweater over it, letting the fabric soak the offending drop. You are sticky and hot; you desperately wish you had set the water trap off, and you hate yourself for feeling this way.

You could seriously strangle someone for an ablution trap right now. A _filled_ one, you correct yourself. Warm or cold water, it's all the same to you so long as it's clean.

Eventually you reach a crossroads — three round holes dug into the rock wall, just high enough for you to peek into, and barely wide enough for an adult troll to crawl through. It's as good a place as any to catch your breath and investigate something you found rather suspicious.

You sit down and decaptchalogue both your computer station and your husktop. The station sits depowered and useless on the uneven floor with no energy sockets nearby, but you manage to circumvent the issue by pulling out your information grub and installing it into your husktop, connecting it to what you _hope_ is the correct tangle of dusty wires. You heave a sigh of relief when you turn the husktop on, in safe mode to save power, and it doesn’t explode in your face.

The culling party had gone through the trouble of smashing your recuperacoon and cracking your ablution trap, and yet your station had been sitting nice and whole and _online_ in the wreckage of your respite block. You hadn't actually caught on to this fact in your hurry to escape — you'd captchalogged it completely on impulse.

You're pretty glad you did, though. It's always nice when Past Karkat does something right for once.

You don't find anything amiss while poking through your computer history and recent documents. It looks more like someone messed around on your desktop, clicking at random files. At least they didn't try and compile your shitty viruses... or maybe they did, but Safe Mode is sparing you from swimming through the morass of broken data. You're starting to think some bored cadet got tired of trashing your hive and decided to catch up with his peeps on Trollian—

You open Trollian with a shaky hand. Your grayed out contact list jumps out at you, the first thing any idiot would think to check.

You open Aradia's log history, and a message you never wrote sits accusingly as the most recent.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling apocalypseArisen [AA] \--

CG: hello. i know this is a bit sudden, but could you confirm your dwelling location. there's this thing I want to send you.  


Your face goes numb and cold, tingling with lack of blood.

Seconds later, though, you start to feel irrationally annoyed that no one even thought to check your older logs to see how you typed. A guy would have to be profoundly stupid to even mistake you for the writer of this message! Look at Aradia, for example, she didn't even bother typing back. It wasn't like the impostor could do anything about it, right? 

You check Tavros' log history.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling adiosToreador [AT] \--

CG: hello. i know this is a bit sudden, but could you confirm your dwelling location. there's this thing I want to send you.  


\-- adiosToreador[AT] is idle --

Aw, hell, did the dumbass actually copy-paste the same message for everyone?

\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

AT: hEY, kARKAT, aRE YOU STILL THERE,  
AT: sORRY, i WAS  
AT: uM,  
AT: iS THAT YOU,  


And Tavros would be stupid enough to answer, you think, ice spreading in your gut.

CG: hey. it's me.  
CG: can you, though.  
CG: send me your location, i mean.  
AT: uMMM,,,,  
AT: aRE YOU SURE,  
AT: i MEAN  


\-- adiosToreador[AT] is idle --

\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

AT: nEVERMIND,  
AT: i'LL SEND YOU,  
AT: tHOUGH, i'LL HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FIRST,  
AT: bECAUSE, uHH, yOU SEE,  
AT: i DON'T KNOW IT WELL MYSELF,  
AT: i NEVER RECEIVE THINGS, aND,  


\-- adiosToreador[AT] is idle \--

CG: hello.  


\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

AT: i LIVE, uM, IN THESE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE FIELDS,  
AT: tHE WIDE-OPEN GRASSY PLAINS i RUN THROUGH  
AT: eVERYDAY,   
AT: yOU KNOW HOW IT IS,,,,  
CG: yes, i do.  
AT: sO IT MIGHT BE UNHELPFUL,  
CG: don't worry about that.  
CG: just tell me what you know.  


You start sagging in relief midway through the conversation as it becomes increasingly clear that Tavros wasn't buying the impostor either. He was still a godawful liar, but maybe this guy was too stupid to catch on.

With an ever increasing amount of uHs and uMs, Tavros described in extremely broad terms a location which may have been just about any beach-front cliff in Alternia, and offered helpful reference points such as a herd of hoofbeasts which went by every now and then, and a purrbeast which slept nearby sometimes. For Tavros, it was actually a pretty good attempt at misdirection.

And then the impostor shot out the name of the plateau he lived on.

Tavros hesitated for a little too long and was probably aware of it, because he uMMed without confirming or denying anything, and then said he had to do something downstairs before logging off.

You sit back and let out a shaky sigh. Tavros wasn't safe, but at least he was aware of it. You wipe your clammy hands on your sweater before opening all logs at once, scrolling through them as quickly as your shaky hands would allow.

Sollux, Kanaya and Terezi hadn't taken the bait, and Nepeta wasn't even online at the time. Equius' log was downright hilarious — he'd berated the impostor for contacting him without permission, and the guy had honest-to-god apologized, humbly accepting Equius' praise of his caste-appropriate humbleness. If you knew him to have anything resembling a sense of humor, you'd suspect Equius of screwing with the guy on purpose. Eridan's was a ridiculously long conversation in which he barely let the other guy get a word in edgewise; you only barely skim through it, but you catch him offhandedly call himself High Lord Snappertail, imply he’s Tavros' kismesis, give Gl'bgolyb's abyssal depths as his location and then propose red twice and black once. Might be worth reading through later.

Vriska's was short and to the point.

AG: Well, there's my address.  
AG: I aw8 your gift with 8ated 8reath!  
AG: I hope you 8ring it in person, you and your little friends.  
AG: My lusus looooooooves visitors. :::;)

And so was Feferi's.

CC: You've got some glubbing N--ERVE asking for my location, Mr. Guy in Karkat's Computer!  
CC: But I'm not t)(at )(ard to find. You just )(ave to sink into t)(e sea.  
CC: Come at me! My trident awaits. 38)  
CC: And bring your lusus, so I may F--E--ED )(IM TO GL'BGOLYB!  
CC: 3>8(

There was no response, probably because the impostor was too busy shitting himself in terror.

You close Feferi's log window, revealing Gamzee's underneath, and your blood-pusher just about freezes when you take in the length of text. Gamzee would know when you're being impersonated, right? But what if he were too high on sopor to— what if he actually gave his— but he wouldn't— _ohmygod._

You fruitlessly attempt to swallow the icy lump lodged in your throat before you force yourself to scroll back and read it from the beginning.

\--  carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] \--

CG: hello. i know this is a bit sudden, but could you confirm your dwelling location. there's this thing I want to send you.  


\-- terminallyCapricious[TC] is idle --

\-- terminallyCapricious[TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

TC: aww, man, you shouldn't have.  
TC: THAT'S SO MOTHERFUCKING SWEET OF YOU.  
TC: you're the sweetest bro a guy could up and ask for. :o)  


\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is idle --

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious[TC] \--

CG: will you give me your location, then.  
TC: OF COURSE, MY BROTHER. :O)  
TC: all up on the sandy dunes.  
TC: AND THE SEA WHAT WE BOTH PLAY IN RIGHT IN FRONT.  
TC: every fucking 12th perigee's eve the green moon rises up smack dab in front of my door.  
TC: AND UP NORTH THERE'S THE OLD GALLOWS WHAT LEGISLACERATORS USED TO UP AND DO THEIR JOB ON WAY BACK WHEN.  
TC: high on a rocky cliff.  
TC: AND IT MAKES A CLOWN FACE WHEN THE MOONLIGHT HITS IT JUST SO. :o)  
CG: i know the location.  
CG: thank you. you were very informative.  
TC: don't be taking too long, man.  
TC: I'M ALL UP AND WAITING HERE, OPEN ARMS, ALL READY TO RECEIVE YOUR BEAUTIFUL GIFT.  
CG: stay in place. i will come find you.  
TC: i know you will :O)  
TC: MY PALEBRO. <>  


Your eyes hit the diamond and the screen tints red with tears.

 _Pale_. He called you— he thinks of you— he—

You start curling in on your knees before you can help yourself, burying your chin against your chest and crying without even knowing why when you're feeling so stupidly, overwhelmingly _happy_.

You return the feelings. You always have, and you're just slightly surprised by the awareness that you did. You just, you took it completely for granted — you think back and can't remember a time when you two weren't moirails in everything but name. And yet, now that he's stepped forward and named it for what it is, you're just about overflowing with happiness and warmth and _relief_ so stark you wonder if a part of you was afraid he hadn't felt the same. Which is frankly such a ridiculous thought that somewhere in the back of your head a part of you is laughing at your own stark flailing stupidity, loud and giddy.

You could hug the nearest threshecutioner, secret ally or not, and it takes you actual physical effort to stop hugging yourself. You wipe your face and blink back at the screen. There's more to read, time-stamped as nearly an hour later.

TC: but to my pale bro i must make sure you remember...  
TC: THERE'S SOMEONE ELSE YOU NEED TO UP AND LOOK OUT FOR.  
TC: it's that thing, what's it all up and called...  
TC: PRIORITY. :o)  
TC: i'll be fine.  
TC: I'LL TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING HERE,  
TC: and then we'll meet again.  
TC: <> <> <>

You catch yourself before you start typing diamonds back. You'd completely forgotten the husktop was offline. You're huddled in a humid cave deep underground, only halfway dry, with your station on safe mode, and giggling alone like an addled fool because you suddenly found out you've had a moirail all along.

There's no doubt in your mind that this is Gamzee, despite the weird typing quirk, and that he knew it wasn’t you. You touch the screen like a mushy dipshit and don't even care. You are completely, utterly certain that the last lines were directed at you, the you hiding here in the dark, not the fake you who was trying to fool him, and you don't even question this certainty.

Gamzee baited the culling party on purpose, and then asked for a favor. You put your station and your husktop back into your sylladex, then stand up without even bothering to dust your pants. You are giddy with pale love. Everything is clear.

You choose one of the three holes to crawl through. You're making a detour.

You did intend to introduce Tavros to the tunnels eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word to the readers: the next 2 or 3 chapters will consist mostly of Gamzee going through several states of batshittery. Archive warnings will be added when I figure just how fucked up he'll make this fic.


	5. > Be Gamzee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are Gamzee Makara.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are waiting.

 

 

 

 


	6. > Be Past Gamzee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Starcrossed Sky](http://starcrossed-sky.tumblr.com/) for looking over the withdrawal symptoms for inconsistencies and generally making sure they were well-handled. I just barreled in with old memories of superficial research in the first draft.

It's not even like two minutes after your good bro had left for his hive that you go and receive a motherfucking sign — a little voice way down deep in your heart that suddenly up and tells you:

Hey man, today is the day. Get that shit outta your system.

A brother's gotta follow what his heart's all up and telling him, is what you always said yourself. You amble up to your load gaper and stick your finger into your tube, and oh hey, a whole damn fucking lot of green spews out of your mouth, barely digested oozy chunks of sopor swirling all crazy and nasty.

You should have thought of this before, are the words all sloshing in the inside of your thinkpan when you lie back on the floor. Your motherfucking best friend was always up in your case about quitting the pies, and you wanted to make him happy, really you did. And you really should have thought of trying before now, when he wasn't all of being around being his tiny little breakable self where the thoughts in your head keep telling you about it over and over.

If you put the hurt in your brother, you'll just — you'll up and throw yourself into the sea, is what you tell yourself while you stare up at the ceiling, your guts all twisted up and cramping and asking for pie. And then you squeeze your eyes shut until they hurt because your thinkpan is trying to conjure up a thought of his little thin arm bent all out of shape, and it's horrible, and you're horrible.

You stand back up and start pacing around your hive, pulling pies out of the oven and sticking them back in, pulling them out of the thermal hull and sticking them back in, pulling them out of the cupboard and tossing them at the wall in a sudden spike of anger. The loud metallic crash is _offensive_ to your ears. Your spongecase feels like a fucking tight helmet is squeezing it in, and you can’t take it off, can’t find the motherfucking thing no matter how hard you dig your claws into your scalp. A bunch of skittery lukewarm thingies are all of itching their way through your fucking hair roots, crawling down the back of your neck and into your motherfucking ears; you slap around at your own head, spattering yourself and your hands with trailing wet indigo.

You'll do it. You'll ride this one to the end, because your brother is already far on the way back to his hive where you can't put the hurt on him. And if your heart up and tells you to get your chase on, the sea is right over there, you'll jump in, you'll chase the fishes instead.

Little ants are suddenly marching up your arms and you toss yourself down when you get your notice on, rolling around in a panic until you catch on that your body's playing tricks at you. They're not flesh-eating ants invading your house, they're them sopor ants what are marching out of your thinkpan little by little and you imagine they're marching down your arms and away. You've got your achy belly down against the cold floor and you’re shaking, and it's weird, because you never felt cold before but that's definitely what you're feeling now, all up in the bad kind of chill, the chill what your brother feels when the wind from the sea blows too strong, all huddling in his turtleneck, curling up around you even though you're near as cold as the sea.

And just like a miracle, you can feel your brother all up and around you now, warm like a cooking oven, his bony legs under your head and his fingers carding through your hair and scritching with those blunt rounded nails what couldn't put the hurt on a wiggler's silky little cocoon. You can hear his voice far above your head, words all tumbling down like the little lost snatches of old conversations, when your thinkpan was up and showing you how easy you could choke a brother in a turtleneck and he was staring straight down into the Dark Carnival inside your eyes, smiling with blunt teeth and

_not_

_a shred_

_of fear_

And all of a sudden your blood pusher’s swelling up and pumping out pie oven warmth by the gallons, washing away the ants in your veins in one big gushing happy flood. Your whole body gives out this big surprise shudder from a soft chill, a good kind of one that comes out together with this purring noise you can’t remember when you last made, making you tremble all over and squeeze your eyes shut from the good of it. You raise a heavy uncertain hand and pat your mess of hair in search of those sweet dreamed up scritching fingers, and you can think of nothing other than how much you desperately want to kiss every single one of those knuckles, bury your face into his warm oven chest and kiss every single miraculous beat you hear—

All your worries and fears go _poof_.

You sit up, the only steady thing in a softly swimming world.

You need to get your chase on.

You need to get your chase on to your brother and let him know that you pity him stupid and that you're a shitty moirail what never could see the bitching diamond-wrapped present a brother was handing out to him all along because you were all hiding behind a wall of oozy green in fear of the thoughts in your head.

The thoughts that were getting your remembrance on about the danger your soft beautiful crystal-shiny brother was always, always in.

Brother. Danger.

Your husktop chimes. Is it your bro? Did he up and make it home already while you were shaking on the floor getting your epiphany on? Did he get his motherfucking remembrance on all of the pale-tude you've had going since the beginning of motherfucking time itself?

You crawl towards your husktop, digging your claws on the floor to keep from sliding out of this wobbly little plank of driftwood what your hive appears to be floating on. He probably just wants to send out word that he's safe up in his fucking hive so you don't get your worry on, though. He always does that, all being a thoughtful bro at you.

It's okay if he doesn't remember yet. You'll remember for him. You'll send him all your diamonds and then you'll run to his hive and you'll have the biggest and most bitchtits motherfucking cuddlefest there ever was in all of the Empire and you'll kiss and kiss his bony little knuckles and his warm blood-pumper and his pale red tears — because if there's one thing your bro is a pro at, it's getting his cry on, and oh, he'll bitch so much if you ever up and tell him that, you laugh at the thought of it.

You scrape a bloodied claw on your husktop's trackpad, and your colorful-trippy-loud- _headachey_ screensaver blinks out to show you those big grey letters what you were all of expec—

CG: hello. i know this is a bit sudden, but could you confirm your dwelling location. there's this thing I want to send you.

_oh no, no no no no no no no no no no no NO_

You were late, late late _late_ and you scream and throw youself back and claw at the crushing weight in your chest you were LATE. You were motherfucking LATE and they GOT YOUR BROTHER and your spongecase is pressing inwards and crushing your thinkpan and it's showing you all of what they did to him, his little broken arm and his twisted turtleneck and his red candy blood spattered which you never ever wanted to see or know but you see it and it's REAL. You can't stop screaming and you can't stop thrashing and you can't stop clawing at your head, you don't want to see it and you don't want to believe it and it's a LIE.

You don’t even know when you got back to your feet, but you’re ripping your thermal hull apart and tossing pies out of windows and doors into walls, punching the sink, bashing a bent tin into the nearest counter because it was their fault you didn’t wake up in time. You let the shiny green of sopor distract you from what you were supposed to do and where is your brother now WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER? You stomp on the tin and stomp and stomp until it’s a crumbled papery mess of metal, but when you lift your foot and look at the crushed surface Karkat’s face jumps out at you from the flattened lines and you stumble back, suffocating on your own scream— 

Something yelps in a loud _honk_ and slides under your foot and you’re thudding back onto the floor with your hands on your eyes, sobbing. You turn face-down and bash your forehead against the floor until your mind is nothing but static, static and floating images of your moirail sleeping peacefully with nothing but a single dripping wound to show for it.

When you next open your eyes, you are nothing but cold purpose. This world is a dud. The paint is rotten. Time to smear it all into a single big stain, to break, stomp and set it on fire. _The Dark Carnival is on_.

CALM THE FUCK DOWN, GAMZEE. 


You blink.

Your husktop is upside down and closed where your thrashing knocked it away, and yet— and yet your brother is all of sending you a wicked message straight into your head, you totally see it even though you sort of don't.

NO, YOU UTTER MESS OF A TROLL. YOUR THINKPAN DOES NOT HAVE A CONNECTION TO WIRELESS TROLLNET.  
I'M HERE ON A VERY SPECIAL MISSION.  
I'M HERE TO INTRODUCE YOU TO THE MAGICAL WORLD OF BASIC LOGIC. 


"Karkat," you mumblewhine, swaying on your butt as you sit up, and you don't even recognize your own voice, it's such a raspy mess.

YES, ME. MY APOLOGIES.  
NOW SHUT UP AND RIDDLE ME THIS.  
WHAT _SHOULD_ BE ON THE WALL TO YOUR RIGHT BY NOW, AND YET IS NOT? 


You look to the right, dizzy and stumped. There's nothing missing from it, not even a fucking poster. Motherfuck, but does your bro ask you some fucking weird questions sometimes. You try to hum thoughtfully to yourself, but the sound that comes out is a scratchy gargley thing.

You spot the mess of sopor you made on another wall and chance it. "...pies?"

NO, YOU DUMBASS. THAT'S SOMETHING THAT SHOULD NOT BE ON ANY WALL WHATSOEVER. IT SHOULD BE IN YOUR COON. WE'VE TALKED ABOUT THIS.  
THE COLOR IS THE SAME, THOUGH.  
TRY AGAIN. 


The color...? _Green?_

You stumble to your feet and trip to your discarded husktop. You open the lid with shaky fingers and nearly drop it twice. You squint at the time display on the bottom of the screen, spattered with your own indigo blood.

You look out the window, then back to the wall oposite, but the clock isn't lying.

The Green Moon isn't up yet. The Green Moon won't be up for a couple hours still, which means it isn't half an hour since Karkat stepped out of your door, frowning all sad and disappointed at the pie you were hurrying up to eat before your thinkpan came up with any more brother-hurting thoughts.

 _Motherfucker_. It's like the moirail in your head even knows that the green moonlight hits your wall just so!

You drop your husktop and make it three steps to your door before you step on another horn and fall flat on your face. Motherfucking Mirth, everything hurts everywhere. You're a mess.

Basic logic, you think. Basic logic. You're in no shape to be running out right now, your body doesn't even remember itself without the pie. You need to get your rest on, and then you'll be able to speed out. Karkat won't be home before the moon is up, he never is and he always leaves at the same hour. You have that long to rest and _think_.

Best of it, some low-life thief invaded your brother's hive when he was out, and then got on the computer to maybe find a new schmuck to get his stalk on. Worst of it, there's a culling party there waiting for him what wants more kids to get their culling on at.

It's not a drone, though. Drones don't use Trollian. It's another troll, maybe more than one. That makes things that much easier for you.

You sit back up and pull your husktop onto your lap. Looks like Aradia got her messaging on while you were busy with your freakout.

\-- apocalypseArisen [AA] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] \--

AA: i'm sending this message to everyone in mine and CG's trollian list  
AA: if you just received a message from CG in lowercase, DO NOT ANSWER!  
AA: his vicinity has been crawling with threshecutioner cadets for hours  
AA: at least 3 of his neighbors have been culled so far  
AA: and i'm told his lusus sent out a weird cry which sent all the others into a panicked fit sometime before they showed up  
AA: SOMETHING is going on in or around his hive  
AA: and there's a chance his contact list is being farmed for more culling targets  
AA: send me a message if you were contacted  
AA: doubly so if you answered back and gave any hint of your location!  
AA: if you know somebody else who might be in his list and not mine  
AA: warn them straight away  
AA: confirming 2 more ghosts from around his location, there's a hunt going on  
AA: this is a mass culling  
AA: not a peep from CG's ghost yet  
AA: please note though that this is no guarantee of his safety  
TC: HONK MY PSYCHOPOMP SISTER.  


There's a sort of plan taking form in your achy pan, and you allow it to stew for the moment. Now is the time to send out word of your brother's safety.

AA: hey there, person who's not typing at all like TC?  
TC: now my motherfuckin sister  
TC: I AM ME.  
TC: i am also full of this sicknasty thudding in my thinkpan.  
TC: BUT MY BROTHER MIGHT BE NEEDING HIS BEST FRIEND THINKING WITH HIS MOTHERFUCKING SPONGE IN ORDER.  
AA: so you're...  
TC: off the motherfuckin pie  
AA: that's  
AA: good news I guess  
AA: did you get the weird message as well?  
TC: YES  
AA: okay  
AA: give me a moment  
AA: alright, list of confirmed targets so far: GC, TA, GA, AG, CT, TC  
AA: list of people who trolled the impostor: CT, AG  
AA: list of people who should NOT have trolled the impostor: CT, AG  
TC: anyway  
TC: JUST THOUGHT I'D UP AND LET YOU KNOW THOUGH  
TC: that my karkabrother just left my hive a little while ago  
TC: HE AIN'T GONNA BE HOME ANY MOTHERFUCKIN SOON.  
AA: okay  
AA: that  
AA: is GREAT news 0u0  
AA: how long ago did he leave?  
TC: about half an hour or something.  
AA: okay, give me a sec  


There was a pause.

AA: alright, good news!  
AA: CG was hanging out with TC until roughly 30 minutes ago  
AA: he wasn't in his hive at the time of the attack and probably won't be for a while!  
AA: (i'm using a plugin to send messages to my whole contact folder)  
AA: (so you'll be sent back stuff you already know, sorry about that)  
TC: NO PROBLEM :o)

You click back on the offending impostor's chat window. You have got to get this motherfucking bastard out of your brother's hive.

You close your eyes and reach out.

You have only a general idea of where his hive is located in relation to yours, but a group of murderous semi-adults in pursuit of a stampede of terrified fleeing children is surprisingly easy to find. You pass them by without paying any notice; it's not like Karkat is going to know about it if a couple of brats are caught. You have your psychic sights set further — on that one smug little fucker chilling in the center of the pandemonium. He's the fucking boss. You can tell by the over-inflated sense of entitlement and self-importance surrounding the dark corners of his thinkspace.

Once you've got a good grasp on the feel of the monsters in those corners, you type back a couple of lines. You put on your best display of harmless, friendly sopor-headedness, as well as you can when your thinksponge is trying to punch its way out of its case. His emotional reaction is more immediate than the line he sends back: predatory glee, amused condescension, underestimation, self-congratulation. Lurking underneath it all is the fear of returning to his boss guys empty-handed, of being punished for not showing enough work. You've got the right bastard — the bossman couldn't resist personally snooping at your moirail's stuff, could he?

He’s definitely got enough for you to work with. On the other hand it might take more than you can give right now, and if you succeed you'll have to be on your feet in a couple of hours, withdrawal or no. You know just who to up and get your help from, though. You hate the thought of it, but it's for your palemate's sake.

You click twice on _arachnidsGrip_.  



	7. > Past Gamzee: be in cahoots with Vriska

\--  terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling  arachnidsGrip [AG]  \--

TC: honk  
AG: Ugh!!!!!!!!  
AG: N8t y8u t88.  
AG: I kn8w what I'm d8ing, 8kay????????

Huh.

TC: SIS I'M NOT IN THE MOTHERFUCKING KNOWING OF WHATEVER YOU'RE ALL BUSY WITH.  
TC: i just wanted to ask if you were up to helping a motherfucker get his plan on.  
AG: What, did Aradia ignore you when she spilled the whole thing out to everyone on our list????????  
AG: W8, a plan?

You glance at Aradia's window. It's blinking. Eh, you'll read it later.

TC: I WANT TO GET THAT FILTHY RABBLE OUT OF OUR NUBBY HORNED BROTHER'S HOUSE  
TC: and subjugglate the fuck out of all those motherfuckers  
TC: SO I THOUGHT MAYBE A SISTER MIGHT WANT TO DONATE SOME MOTHERFUCKIN MANIPULATION TO THE CAUSE.  
AG: Ughhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!  
AG: F8ck y8u!!!!!!!!  
AG: That plan is M8NE!!!!!!!!

Or maybe you'll read it sooner. Yep, your rust sister was all up and getting her complaint on about Spidersister sending out her address on purpose. Maybe blue sis has her heart in the right place after all.

TC: sorry, chica, i didn't see your motherfucking name anywhere in it :o)  
TC: AND I ALSO DON'T SEE THOSE BASTARDS UP AND LEAVING ANY TIME SOON. )o:  
AG: F8ck y8u  
AG: F8ck y8u!!!!!!!!  
TC: shhhh sister get your calm on  
TC: TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE  
TC: you could do your manipulating  
TC: WHILE I DO MY CHUCKLEVOODOOS. :o)

A few seconds go by before she answers you.

AG: Well.  
AG: Okay, then, since it looks like you're not getting aaaaaaaanywhere on your own :::;)  
AG: 8ut you'll owe me, am I clear????????  
TC: clear as pie. :o)  
AG: Pies aren't clear!!!!!!!!  
AG: So what's your silly plan, anyway?  
TC: I SEND OUT MY ADDRESS  
TC: and do my silly motherfucking junkie act  
TC: I MAKE MYSELF LOOK ALL SORTS OF MOTHERFUCKING KILLABLE  
TC: and all sorts of happy clueless.  
TC: AND WHEN THOSE GUYS ARE THINKING THAT I'M THIS EASY MOTHER FUCKING LITTLE PREY  
TC: you make them think it harder.  
TC: MAKE THEM THINK IT REALLY MOTHERFUCKING HARD.  
TC: make them big nasty barkbeasts want to chase this poor little harmless hopbeast  
TC: THIS LITTLE HOPBEAST WHAT MIGHT ALL BE KNOWING WHERE A NUBBY-HORNED BRO MIGHT BE AT  
TC: and who all a nubby-horned bro might know. :o)  
AG: Not 8ad!!!!!!!!  
AG: There might 8e hope for you yet.  
AG: Step 8ack and leave it to a pro!

You sit back and let your eyes flutter closed, concentrating on the distant feel of the bossman at Karkat's computer. He's starting to feel uneasy. Your chucklevoodoos really get to people, even when you're just sort of mentally hovering around...

Something smashes into the poor fucker's mind like a goddamn war vessel, and you fall flat on your spinal column from the backlash. You lose track of him for a moment -- wait, no. He pushed you out. _Fuck_.

TC: BITCH WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK ARE YOU DOING  
AG: SH8T UP!!!!!!!!  
AG: I sh8uld 8e the one asking that!  
AG: I th8ught I t8ld you to step 8ack, dum8ass!!!!!!!!  
TC: you don't manipulate shit by pushing it off a cliff, spiderbitch.  
TC: THAT'LL JUST DESTROY IT.  
AG: F8CK Y8U F8CK Y8U F8CK Y8U  
AG: F8CK Y8U!!!!!!!!

This won't do. This won't motherfucking do at all. Time to teach this bitch how to manipulate.

You sink into her mind, slow and careful. Finding her is not a challenge; you stalked her hive for a few hours on the aftermath of Tavros' accident, riding the crest of a particularly intense pie-binge while still struggling with the urge to rip necks apart, and the general location stuck with you. You may have attempted to use your chucklevoodoos on her as well, but were much too high to concentrate. It's not a problem now. She's too upset to notice even if you weren't being half as subtle. 

Her fears are interesting. She's afraid you might not count on her anymore. She's afraid you'll think less of her for not being a perfect manipulator, for being overeager, for a moment of clumsiness. She's afraid you'll think her weak.

Fuck, you're not counting on her, you're using her. You couldn't possibly think less of her than you already do. And she's not weak, you'll grant her that, but she's pretty damn dumb. It's always so fucking hilarious when people are afraid for nothing.

TC: chica, i'm not sure you really know what you're doing.   
TC: MAYBE I SHOULDN'T HAVE ASKED THIS OF YOU.

You fan her fears word by word, and grin to yourself as she flails around in her own mind.

AG: F8CK Y8U I C8N D8 TH8S!!!!!!!!  
TC: shoosh, sister, i ain't gonna look down my windholes on my good spider friend like that.  
TC: AIN'T NO SHAME IN HAVING TOO MUCH POWER AND TOO LITTLE THINKSPONGE.  
TC: just kidding. :o)  
AG: Ughhhhhhhh, sh8t 8p!!!!!!!! I'm j8st h8ving a b8d d8y!  
TC: I KNOW, MY GOOD SISTER.  
TC: we all get those motherfuckin days.  
TC: WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A NICE DEEP BREATH  
TC: and stop putting 8s everywhere?  
TC: THAT SHIT MAKES FOR TOUGH READING.

As you send your messages, you start to ease up on your psychic pressure, letting some of the fear bleed out. She interprets the diminishing anxiousness just the way you expected her to -- as a surge of whatever passes for confidence in her head.

AG: Fine!!!!!!!!  
AG: 8ut only 8ecause you're clearly T88 HIGH to parse small words, you dum8 junkie.  
TC: you don't have to go and bash a motherfucker like that. :o(  
TC: HOW ABOUT WE JUST LET THE FAKER BE FOR NOW  
TC: and try to tiptoe into the head of a lackey or something?  
TC: I MEAN  
TC: maybe they know what's really going on  
TC: AND THAT FUCKER'S PROBABLY ON HIS GUARD RIGHT NOW.

For every line you send, you let go of a little bit more of her mind. You let her breathe easy, feel good. 

AG: Heh! I was already on it 8efore you even thought of that!

You have your doubts.

Still, you sit back and put Vriska on the back burner, letting your mind hover around the other fucker instead. He's utterly terrified of _something_ \-- so much so, you could swear it's what actually expelled you from his mind -- but his fear gives you a grip on his thoughts regardless of whether he's aware of your presence or not. 

You really just want to distract yourself. Your whole body feels like a honking pile of shit, and you figure it'll feel even worse when you start actually paying attention to it. 

Then Vriska spares you the effort by giving you something else to laser-focus your attention on.

AG: ...Huh.  
AG: I'm not sure how you're going to take this bit, but it looks like Karkat is some sort of mutant!!!!!!!!

_Shit_. That wasn't supposed to get out. You focus back on her. You'll have to break her mind from inside out before she goes flapping her piehole to anyone else.

TC: what's it to you, sister?  
AG: W8, so you knew it already?  
AG:  Gee , and here I thought you'd 8e surprised! Stupid me.  
AG: 8ut now I finally know what's up with his gr8y text! His 8lood is pro8a8ly a funny c8lor or s8mething.  
AG: Why do these 8ast8rds even f8cking care, though? Uuuuuuuugh, I'm st8rting to get pissed off!  
AG: G8ddamnit, shit, shit, sh8t!!!!!!!!  
AG: Sh8t, n8 w8nder he w8s hiding!  
AG: He des8rves 8etter th8n this!!!!!!!!  
AG: Ffffffff, I'm st8rting to fr8k o8t over h8re, sh8t.  
AG: Sh8t.   
AG: sh8t sh8t sh8t sh8t sh8t sh8t sh8t sh8t

You hesitate, step back. Those are not the words of someone who'll sell your brother out. They are more like the words of someone who's afraid for his sake. Granted, it's probably the fear you're putting in her head -- but she seems to associate it with Karkat's danger, and in a way that makes it real.

You'll spare her.

TC: DEEP BREATHS, MY MOTHERFUCKIN SISTER  
TC: we'll make it all better.  
TC: WE'LL FEED THEM HALF TO YOUR SPIDERMOMMA  
TC: and half to my subjugglating clubs.  
AG: 8ghhhhhhhh, s8rry ab8ut that.  
AG: Yes, that s8unds l8ke a pl8n!  
AG: G8d, I really freak8d out for a m8ment there and I'm n8t even s8re why.  
AG: I'm n8t half as cl8se to him as y8u are!!!!!!!!  
TC: EASY DOES IT, SISTER  
TC: we got a job to do.  
AG: Yes!!!!!!!!  
AG: I'll dig ar8und for a little l8nger.  
AG: Some of these guys sm8ll a rat and so do I.  
AG: I mean, why send a ton of Threshecutioners and r8ise all this racket for one shitty little m8tant?  
AG: Their words, not mine!  
TG: THAT RIGHT THERE IS A DAMN GOOD MOTHERFUCKING QUESTION, CHICA.

You retreat from her mind, go back to stalking your main prey. This fucker's just downright pissing his pants and you swear it's not your doing. Do you let him be? Wind him up? Ease him down? Each option could serve your purpose in a different way, but ultimately you want controlled fear from him. 

You start to shoosh the claws in his mind, just like you're Karkat and his terror is a bunch of fucking juggalos flipping their shit what you need to settle right the fuck down. Soon enough you can feel him dismissing his own fears without your help, shoving them down out of the way where he can make believe they're not there. It suits your purposes. You let him be for the moment.

TC: got any news, spidersister?  
AG: 8luuuuuuuuh!  
AG: These 8astards are so misinformed.  
AG: H8lf of them doesn't care, they're just good little followers.  
AG: And I c8n't get into the heads of the 8ther half!!!!!!!!  
TC: JUST DRIFT IN ALONG WITH ANY OLD THOUGHT  
TC: then sit still and quiet.  
TC: I GOT BACK INTO OUR FAKER GUY THIS WAY.  
AG: W8.  
TC: it wasn't that hard  
TC: I'M DOING A WHOLE MOTHERFUCKING BUNCH OF WAITING HERE.  
AG: Sh8t up, you're starting to s8und like Karkat.  
AG: I'll give your tip a try l8ter, even though it's 8asically what I've 8een doing only lamer.  
AG: I just found a guy who knows a little more than he wishes he did!  
AG: Looks like Karkat's hive is full of heretical imagery or something.  
AG: And just KNOWING what it means is grounds for culling!!!!!!!!  
AG: Do you know anything a8out that?  
TC: nah, sister, I been to his hive once and never saw any heretical shit there.  
AG: 8ut how would you know it was heretical?  
AG: May8e it looks super normal and innocuous unless you know what it means.  
AG: This guy just happens to have heard of it and he's 8asically sweating a whole Equius there!  
TC: SO WHAT'S THIS MOTHERFUCKING HERESY LOOK LIKE?  
AG: Duuuuuuuuh, I d8n't know!  
AG: It's not like I can see out of his eyes, that would have 8een too helpful!  
AG: The Mother Gru8 had to nerf me SOMEwhere, you know!  
AG: Anyw8y, that explains what the mass culling is a8out.  
AG: They're erasing these heretic sym8ols and anyone who might have seen them.  
AG: Silly Karkat pro8a8ly 8rought something romantic-looking to his hive and it landed him in a whole shitload of trou8le!  
TC: better not go telling our ghost sister about it yet, sis.  
AG: Wh8t makes y8u think I was going to t8ll her!?  
AG: And it's not like we know that much to 8egin with!  
AG: Just that Karkat has SOMETHING heretical in his hive, and we don't know what it is or what it looks like either!  
AG: If Karkat sent someone a stupid heretical present, how are we going to know?  
AG: If he gave you a stupid rom-com heresy poster, you might as well 8urn it already.  
AG: Ughhhhhhhh, I'll just go 8ack to digging around in their heads.  
AG: I'm making sure they remem8er how much they h8 this job and how 8ORED they are and how staying in the hive is a huge stinking w8ste of their time.  
AG: And may8e I'll find another lucky threshie with heretical leanings while I'm at it!  
TC: TIP TOES, MY MOTHERFUCKIN SPIDERSIS.  
TC: be a sneaky little shit  
TC: AND LET THEM GUIDE YOU IN WITH THEIR OWN FUCKIN THOUGHTS.  
AG: I knoooooooow!!!!!!!!  
AG: Geeze, stop telling me how to do my jo8!!!!!!!!

You wouldn't have to if she knew what she was doing in the first place -- but you keep that bit to yourself. Instead, you close your eyes and drift back to the distant hive, flitting around the minds of the threshie cadets. Vriska is doing a good job on the weak-minded; they're antsy and annoyed and sloppy in their jobs, and the only thing keeping them in line is fear of their commander. You'll need them to obey the big one when the time comes, though, so you let them be.

You hang around as she works her magic on a stronger cadet, inching along thoughts he already had, strengthening anti-authority ones little by little. He's not holding much fear; this guy seems to be too disciplined to make a good pawn either way, so you step back and poke some unease into Vriska's head when it feels like she's losing patience and maybe considering kicking his rebelliousness into overdrive. She backs off after a second of hesitation, moving on. You'll make a manipulator of her yet.

You move along the line of cadets who seem likely to give her trouble, twisting their little fear-knobs up or down according to whatever feels appropriate in your gut. Let their guards down, but not enough to let Vriska manipulate them into doing anything patently stupid. 

Until you hit the one who's simply not fucking afraid at all.

AG: 8ack off this one!!!!!!!!  
TC: you mean the stupid one with no fucking fear, is that it?  
AG: Yes, that one exactly!  
AG: He's m8re than just stupid, he's our own little treasure trove of inform8tion and also stupidly hard to get into so d8n't get me kicked 8ut!  
AG: Shiiiiiiiit, he's closed off AG8IN.  
AG: He's not 8udging!!!!!!!!  
AG: It's all y8ur fault!!!!!!!!  
AG: That asshole knew EV8RYTH8NG and he's H8LDING 8UT ON US!!!!!!!!  
TC: I DIDN'T DO MOTHERFUCKIN NOTHING, BITCH.  
TC: what all did you see in his thinkpan what got yours in such a twist?  
AG: He's a c8ltist and he thinks Karkat is his GOD!!!!!!!!

Oh, _motherfucking_. You focus on the guy a little harder and wish you could sense more than his emotions. 

AG: Do YOU know anything a8out that?  
TC: SHIT, NOT ALL THAT MOTHERFUCKING MUCH.  
TC: but when my brother showed me his secret he did all say some other people were in on it.  
AG: Ughhhhhhhh, so Karkat's more than just em8roiled in heretic cults...  
AG: he's their POSTER 8OY!!!!!!!!  
TG:  DOES OUR HERETIC THRESHIE GOT ANYTHING ELSE IN HIS HEAD WHAT WE SHOULD KNOW OF?  
AG: Yeah, well, I was getting to ALL sorts of good stuff when this stupid clown stuck his 8ig red nose in and messed it up!  
AG: 8UT!!!!!!!!  
AG: I can safely affirm this guy is on our side.  
AG: He was definitely thinking very hard about how to get the thresh group out of Karkat's hive!  
AG: Also he calls him a 8unch of funny names.  
AG: Seriously, what the hell is a Gru8loaf of Life?  
TC: i don't even know, sister, these bastards are all motherfuckin nuts.

You lean back onto your hands, close your eyes and let your heavy head fall back -- and you return to yourself, to your pained mess of a body. It's tired and shaky and furiously craving sopor, and your toes and fingers are numb and throbbing enough to make typing complicated. Blood is still oozing out of the welts you gouged in your own skin, and one of your hands is swelling on the knuckles where you vaguely remember having punched... something. A pie tin, maybe.

You ache to your very bones. It's like the pain is oozing out lazily from your marrow, seeping into your muscles, tickling your skin with feverish shivers. Karkat's warm, hesitant fingertips trace your sweaty brow, and you lean into the touch, open your eyes. His are wide and worried. 

_Just five more minutes. Can you hold on for five more minutes? ...How about this, then -- five minutes, and then you can have one spoon. And then we can wait five more minutes. Is that okay? Or you can have it now, I mean, if you really need it that much. It's okay if you can't handle it. Let's take this one step at a time. You're doing good, Gamzee. You made it pretty far today._

His eyes are so pained, it's like he's feeling your symptoms more than you are. You stare at the anxious crease of his eyebrows, drink into his nervous smile. How is a dude even hatched with teeth so blunt, you think to yourself. How does he cut meat?

Your moirail is the poster 8oy of a heretic cult. It's dangerous business and probably kind of embarrassing to boot, so you don't hold it against him for having understated the size of his secret. He looks bashful enough, wet and shirtless and hugging his legs with shivering arms, looking dubiously at you from between his eyelashes. _There's this bunch of nutters, too_ , he answers hesitantly, tugging at a loose strand on the hem of his pants, _but it's not like I got to_ choose _to tell them_. And you ask, _so you up and chose to let me know just now?_ , and you scoot a little closer to push at him with a salt-sticky shoulder, and he just mumbles some half-hearted curses under his breath, like he didn't just all and tell you about his miraculous blood. The blood which is apparently worshipped by a cult so heretic it's mass-culling level of forbidden.

This is some huge shit. Your bro is playing on the big leagues.

You close your eyes again and take a deep breath, feel the scratches in your chest stretch, the crusted blood tug and open. It's good pain. It grounds you. When you open your eyes again, your husktop screen looks realer than you remember reality ever being. It's like waking up from a lingering dream. 

The faker's window is blinking, and so is Aradia's, pumping out a long stream of rust-colored drivel you don't really care for. Sol-bro is also sending you some stuff, but you have no time for him and his weird double boner bullshit -- you just noticed your mark has only sent you one single message since he pushed you out, and only after going idle for a while. You can't let him get bored of you. It's more than time to get your response on. 

You click back on Vriska's window.

TC: ARE YOU READY TO GET INTO THE FAKER'S HEAD?  
AG: Already on it :::;)  
AG: Hahahaha, did you read it, though?  
AG: Feferi trolled him good!!!!!!!!  
AG: Didn't think she had it in her!!!!!!!!  
TC: good for our sea sister  
TC: NOW LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED  
AG: Gee, you're no fun.  
AG: Are you even reading any8ody else's messages?  
TC: no  
TC: JUST GET INTO THE MOTHERFUCKER'S HEAD ALREADY AND PRIME IT FOR ME.  
AG: Geeze, okay, okay...

You crack your knuckles. They make noise. You barely feel them snap.

You call the bastard fake impostor your brother. You send out your best clown smiley, and all the reference points to your hive you can think of. You furiously type instructions to Vriska, heedless of her whiny little complaints, and you croon and soothe all his misgivings to sleep. Your power is not to whisper into people's minds but you whisper nonetheless, and you don't know or care whether you're whispering to your own empty food preparation block or to him.

_Check out this motherfucking little cretin, man, kicking back his NAIVE MOTHERFUCKING IGNORANCE and handing out his place to a powerful, stronger, older, SMARTER stranger on a motherfucking platter. Ain't he all gonna shit his motherfucking wiggler diapers when you show up with all your little MINIONS to lay down the law? Ain't he gonna CRY and BEG and LICK YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BOOTS when you up and teach him ALL YOUR MOTHERFUCKING SUPERIORITY? Lil' fucker's probably faking his blood color, no way a highblood's ever so stupid and soft on the head. MAKE HIM PAY. Your higher-ups will be SO FUCKING PROUD of you._

_MAKE._

_him._

_PAY._

You add extra honey to your trap with a diamond. There. Now he thinks he's got dirt on a super heretic moirail sucker, and with your main Spidersister putting her convince on in his mind that these weak-ass fuckers will know all about where a heretic mutant gets his hideout in, you just have to kick back and enjoy some rest before you get to rid the universe of this one batch of moirail-hunting thresh-holes. Life is good. Time to relax. It's totally okay to let your guard down for now!

You know what's going on before you even catch the skittery little tickle in the back of your head. You're not surprised. That's how the spider plays. She really ain't subtle at all, is she?

Spiders are for stomping on. You become a war vessel and smash into the bitch's mind without the least bit of mercy, and you grind your heel in for a few seconds just to make it stick. That'll teach her to bite the hand that schoolfed her, you think, and then you fall flat on your back and nearly black out from the pain. 

Fuck. You overdid it.

Your head is full to burst, your thinkpan so swollen it's pushing out the walls of your spongecase, and your guts are tying themselves into the most painful pretzels. You take shallow breaths, staring unfocused at the ceiling while Karkat fusses and mumbles and dries your sweaty brow ands asks all the while whether you ate anything funny or fuzzy-looking or if you even paid attention to what you ate at all, you shit-for-brains. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to get one word, any word, past the rubbery blob that is your tongue; but when you open your eyes again the world is back to being sharp and Karkat is back to being away, and the light coming from the windows has shifted just enough for you to notice -- but there's no green light yet. 

You sit back up. The ache in your body has intensified, but the pain in your head has ebbed. You can work with that. 

You restrain the urge to punch the infernal, seizure-inducing screen-saver, and banish it instead with a fist to the keys. You're in a terrible mood and you know it, and you're in no condition to appreciate the flicker of shifting colors either. They remind you of-- no.

You'll have a better leash on yourself once the withdrawal phase is over. For now, though, you take the time to turn off your screen-saver, fighting your limp, rubbery fingers all the way. You'll turn it back on later, maybe -- there's nothing inherently wrong with it. You do like it. It distracts you from your bloodlust.

The taskbar clock says you were out for twenty minutes. It felt longer. While you were out, Aradia stopped messaging, and instead Sol-bro sent you a bunch of executables which are asking to be installed. You fight your trackpad until you can click the Yes button, and then you wonder why you didn't just hit the enter key.

You're starting to think you might not be doing so good.

Dismissing the thought with a mental shrug, you direct your attention back to your husktop. Sollux's files opened a very bare-bones Trollian window, and it's being invaded by nearly all the screen names you know. 

For the next half hour or so, you are part of a bitchtits motherfucking chat party. You confirm the safety of pretty much everyone you give a shit about, and you send out word that your plan did work and the heretic threshie was the only one left in your brother's hive. You feel cold, then hot; you shake, then sweat. Your headache stabilizes into a constant thrum, like a defective bassline in your thinkpan.

You send one last message to your moirail then close your husktop with a snap, averting your eyes from your modus' stroboscopic flashing when you captchalogue it. Slowly and tentatively, you set your feet flat on the floor and unfurl your body, savoring the stretch of every bruise and the pull of each cut. 

You feel wonderfully alive and real and shitty and pained. You've been chewed and spat out by some metaphorical behemoth, and every cell in your body is now awake and aware. You raise your chin and walk step by swaying step to the beach outside your door, and your shoes are clumped with a mix of blood, sopor and sand until the waves lap at your feet and they're suddenly clean again. And you keep walking, until the water hits your knees, your waist, the cuts on your chest.

Sea water was good for wounds, right? Or maybe it was bad and you're doing something very stupid. You're out of motherfucks to give, though. You left them all with Karkat. You bend your knees and sink in the water up to your horns.

The sting of salt feels good on your cuts. Maybe you're nearly a seadweller. Maybe indigo-bloods are also a sort of mutation, purples with too much blue. Maybe that's why you're all so fucked up in the head, stuck between land and sea. But Karkat is, like, tyrian with rust or something, and he couldn't be farther from the fucked up monster you are. 

Your lungs burn, and so do your cuts. You want your moirail. But you rise back out of the water and take a huge lungful of the evening air, and you grin as you watch blood drip from your hair into the water and dissolve into transparency; you are a creature of the land after all. 

The horizon is developing a sickly, greenish cast, and you amble back to your hive, set your wet butt down at the door. Your Strife Specibus spits your clubs out onto your lap. They look so motherfucking _clean_.

You settle down to wait.


	8. > join 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many quirks to track! I'm just gonna give Kaossparrow some extra thanks for doublechecking them all for me.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit May 4, 2014: While editing the pesterlog code I accidentally deleted this chapter and lost all comments therein, which makes me incredibly sad and also incredibly angry. I was on the preview window! The button said "Discard Draft"! I thought I was discarding the changes, _not_ the chapter! Goddammit.

twinArmageddons [TA] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
apocalypseArisen [AA] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
AA: yay it works!

TA: we won't know that untiil at lea2t one more u2er joiin2 iin.  
TA: what the fuck ii2 takiing the2e bulgeliicker2 2o long two iin2tall one 2hiitty plugiin, damn.

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
gallowsCalibrator [GC] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
GC: LONG T1M3 NO S33, 3V3RYON3

cuttlefishCuller [CC] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
caligulasAquarium [CA] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
CC: )(ey, guys!  
CC: It's so glubbing ---EXCITING to )(ave everyone able to carp toget)(er like t)(is!  
CC: I only wis)( it were in better circumstances. 38(

GA: The Occasion Is Truly Unfortunate  
GC: Y34H >:[  
AA: maybe circumstances which did not involve revealing that karkat knows the heir! >_<  
GA: But I Also Wish I Had Known About This Chat Function Before It Would Have Come In Handy During Many Frustrating Conversations

GC: UH... K4N4Y4  
AA: uh  
CA: hahaha kan  
CA: nevver change  
AA: kanaya, this is the plugin you just installed!  
AA: the one sollux sent you  
GA: Oh  
GA: I Thought I Was Accepting A File Transfer  
AA: you were!  
AA: and once it was done it asked for permission to install  
AA: did it not?  
GA: I Thought That Was Also A File Transfer  
GA: My Technological Illiteracy Continues To Be An Embarrassment Im Afraid  
GA: But At Least There Was No Previous Chat Function For Me To Fail To Find  
TA: well, there II2 a memo board.  
TA: iin theory, iit would work much liike thii2 chat.  
TA: but iit'2 a hot me22, ii wouldn't wii2h iit on my own non-exii2tent kii2me2ii2.  
TA: iit ju2t 2iit2 there hoggiing all the mem2pace, iit'2 not even u2able.  
arachnidsGrip [AG] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
TA: 2o ii whiipped thii2 up real quiick.  
AG: Helloooooooo, everyone!!!!!!!! :::;)

GC: BLUH  
TA: iit'2 not my be2t work, but we're kiind of iin a hurry.  
GA: Arent You A Bit Too Cheerful For The Circumstances  
centaursTesticle [CT] has joined 2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe  
TA: ii mean, 2hiit, look at thii2, there's no liine2pace between 2ubmiited text and program notiice2.  
TA: fuck, thii2 ii2 a biig u2abiiliity ii22ue.  
AG: I'm cheerful 8ecause I'm 8RILLIANT!!!!!!!!  
TA: thii2 2hiit i2 unreadable.  
TA: what the FUCK wa2 ii thiinkiing.  
CT: D --> I thought the purpose of this group chat was to di%uss the matter of Vantas' impending culling and how it might affect us  
AG: His a8orted culling, you mean!  
AG: 8ecause I'm putting a stop to it right here, right now! :::;)  
CT: D --> How do you intend to a%omplish such a feat  
GC: Y3S, 1NQU1R1NG M1NDS W4NT TO KNOW!  
AA: yes please tell us what you expect to accomplish by making your hive the next target!  
AG: I expect to feed my lusus with some hardier meat ton8. :::;)  
GC: YOURS?  
AG: 8luuuuuuuuh, you're just JEALOUS you couldn't come up with something this good!  
GC: OH, 1 C4M3 UP W1TH SOM3TH1NG GOOD, 4LR1GHT  
GC: 1 C4M3 UP W1TH TH3 R3VOLUT1ON4RY STR4T3GY OF L4Y1NG QU13T 4ND LOW WH1L3 MR 4PPL3B3RRY BL4ST OV3R TH3R3 PLUMB3D TH3 D3PTHS OF TH3 1NT3RBUTT FOR 4NY CLU3S WH1CH M1GHT CONN3CT OUR TROLL14N H4NDL3S TO OUR R34L N4M3S OR LOC4T1ONS  
GC: SO H3 COULD 3XTR4CT 4ND 3XT3RM1N4T3 TH3M  
GC: W1TH GR34T PR3JUD1C3!  
GC: 1M SORRY TO 1NFORM YOU TH4T YOU M4Y F1ND C3RT41N FORUM 4ND/OR G4M1NG 4CCOUNTS UN4V41L4BL3 FOR TH3 T1M3 B31NG  
AG: WH88888888T!!!!!!!!  
GC: HUSH, 1T W4S 4 S4CR1F1C3 W3 W3R3 4LL R3QU1R3D TO M4K3  
CC: Yes, Vriska, it sharks t)(at we didn't get any say or warning on t)(e matter but Terezi made t)(e rig)(t call!  
AA: yes  
AA: except you destroyed any advantage secrecy would have given you for a cheap scare  
AA: and yes I will keep on harping on this matter until I feel you are properly contrite  
CC: W)(ale, I'm SORRY I wasn't magically aware of your GLUBBING S)(-ENANIGANS.  
AA: the same goes for Vriska  
AA: this isnt a FLARP game  
AG: 8luuuuuuuuh to you t88!  
AA: we are dealing with trolls old enough to be nominally employed in the fleet  
AA: way too many of them  
CT: D --> Is that true

AA: yes  
AA: my sources say they are fitted with full threshecutioner apparel  
AA: and theyre being mobilized to hunt and cull a great many people in karkats area for reasons which remain unclear  
AA: we simply dont know enough to make any offensive moves  
AG: What, so you're willing to just let these guys na8 Karkat as soon as he arrives, is that it????????  
GC: DONT M1S1NT3RPR3T US, VR1SK4!  
GC: TRUST M3 WH3N 1 S4Y 1M G3NU1N3LY TH4NKFUL TH4T YOUR3 W1LL1NG TO PUT YOURS3LF 4T R1SK FOR K4RK4TS S4K3  
GC: BUT TH4TS TH3 1SSU3  
GC: YOUR3 PUTT1NG YOURS3LF 1NTO UNN3C3SS4RY D4NG3R FOR UNC3RT41N R3TURNS  
AG: 8luuuuuuuuh.  
GA: Its True Nothing Guarantees They Will Abandon Their Trap In Karkats Hive To Pursue You  
GA: If Their Number Is As Great As Aradia Claims Then There Is Also The Possibility They Will Merely Detach A Part Of Their Forces To That Purpose  
twinArmageddons [TA] is sending 2HIITTY PLUGIIN UPDATE.exe  
GC: 3X4CTLY!  
GC: WH4T TH3 H3LL 1S TH1S F1L3  
TA: bug fiixe2.  
GC: WHY 4R3 YOU 3V3N TH1NK1NG 4BOUT TH4T?  
AA: so thats where you were 0_0  
CC: Forget t)(e glubbing bugs, Sollux, t)(e plugin is fintastic t)(e way it is!  
GC: 4NYW4Y  
GC: JUST 4S K4N4Y4 PUT 1T, WHO3V3RS 1N CH4RG3 WOULD H4V3 TO B3 1MM3NS3LY STUP1D TO MOV3 TH3 3NT1R3 GROUP OUT 4ND CH4S3 4FT3R 4 TROLL14N CONT4CT WH3N TH3Y COULD ST4Y 4ND W41T UNT1L TH31R M41N T4RG3T W4ND3R3D 1NTO TH31R W41T1NG 4RMS OF H1S OWN 4CCORD  
GC: 4ND 1 F33L 1TS S4F3 TO 4SSUM3 K4RK4T 1S TH1S T4RG3T  
GC: 4M 1 R1GHT, 4R4D14?  
AA: yes  
AA: in fact  
AA: a spirit just came back to inform me that most hives in his suburb are merely being set on fire  
AA: while a number of threshecutioners are laying an ambush in karkats  
GC: UH  
GC: TH3N  
GC: 1 GU3SS TH1S GUY 1SNT 4LL TH4T SM4RT 4FT3R 4LL  
GC: G1V1NG H1S T4RG3T SUCH H1GHLY V1S1BL3 W4RN1NG S1GNS  
AG: Yeah, trust me, this guy's a tooooooootal dum8ass.  
CA: haha yes vvris speaks TRUTH here  
CA: this guy's a total fuckin dumbass seariously  
GC: 4ND HOW WOULD YOU KNOW, MR BOYS3NB3RRY V1OL3T?  
AA: don't tell me  
CC: -ERIDAN, T-ELL M-E YOU DID KNOT -ENGAG-E T)(IS GLUBBING STRANC)(OR IN CONV-ERSATION.  
AA: you were  
CA: shell fuckin yes I wwas

TA: ahaha 2o that'2 where you were.  
AA: shut up sollux I know youre still coding  
CA: haha no seariouly this guy's a fuckin riot  
CA: thinkin he's this big fuckin genius because he thought a contactin us under Kar's name  
CA: but he doesn't knoww ship aboat kar  
CA: and he doesn't knoww ship aboat us  
CT: D --> That is a remarkable display of incompetence  
GA: Youre Still Putting Yourself Into Unnecessary Risk As Terezi Put It  
CA: swweet a you ta wworry but no  
CA: cause I came up wwith this fuckin revvolutionary strategy  
CA: it's called  
CA: lying  
AG: Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!  
AG: So that's why this idiot is feeling so smug and accomplished!  
CA: by the wwavve Fef Gl'bgolyb wwill be gettin an extra snack tunaight  
CA: just so you knoww  
GC: TH4TS F41RLY CL3V3R  
GC: 4S LONG 4S YOU C4N M41NT41N THE LIE WITHOUT CONTR4D1CT1NG YOURS3LF  
AG: You're just wishing you'd come up with the idea first!  
GC: 4CTU4LLY  
GC: 1 4M, K1ND OF  
GC: WH3N 1 R3C31V3D TH3 M3SS4G3 1 1MM3D14T3LY 4SSUM3D TH3 WORST  
GC: 4ND SP3NT 4 SH4M3FUL 4MOUNT OF T1M3 FROZ3N 1N SHOCK  
GC: YOU COULD H4V3 TOPPL3D M3 OFF MY S1TT1NG 4PP4R4TUS W1TH 4 DR4GON SC4L3!  
AG: Awwwwwwww!!!!!!!!  
AG: :::;)  
CC: I was pretty s)(ocked and angry myss)(ellf!  
CC: And I'm knot even t)(at close to )(im. 38(  
GC: BY TH3 T1M3 1 R3COV3R3D MY W1TS 1T D1D NOT OCCUR TO M3 TO TROLL H1M B4CK  
GC: MY PR1OR1TY W4S D4M4G3 CONTROL  
AA: that was when she contacted sollux and me  
GC: Y3S  
GC: 1 H4D 4R4D14 CONSULT H3R GHOSTS WH1L3 SOLLUX D1D H1S H4CK3R TH1NG  
GC: BUT R34LLY 1 W4S HOP1NG K4RK4TS GHOST WOULD TH1NK OF CONT4CT1NG H3R 1NST34D OF 4TT3MPT1NG R3V3NG3 OR BUGG1NG G4MZ33 FOR H3LP OR 4NY NUMB3R OF S1LLY TH1NGS A CONFUS3D D34D K4RK4T WOULD TH1NK OF DO1NG  
GC: 4ND NOW 1 F33L TH3 OPPORTUN1TY H4S GON3  
GC: 1 L34V3 TH3 LY1NG 1N YOUR 4CC3PT4BLY C4P4BL3 H4NDS, 4MPOR4  
CA: too bad ter you cod run rings around this guy  
GA: Speaking Of Gamzee  
GC: Y3S, WH3R3 TH3 H3LL 1S H3?  
AG: Who caaaaaaaares!  
AG: F8rget that st8pid s8p8rhead, what use w8uld he even be????????  
AA: uh  
AA: actually  
AA: oh wait  
GC: G4MZ33 W4S TH3 L4ST TO S33 K4RK4T, OF COURS3 H3LL B3 OF US3!  
GA: We Also Need To Make Sure He Didnt Give Himself Away By Accident Due To Sopor-Impaired Judgement  
CT: D --> True  
CT: D --> The highb100d's safety is of utmost importance  
CC: I'm wondering aboat Tavros, too. Is )(e still AFK?  
AA: baffling news everyone  
AA: ive just been told Karkats hive is full of secret doors  
GC: W41T  
GC: R34LLY?  
CC: Reelly? 38O  
AA: and the culling party seems to be working under the assumption that he's going to come in from one of them  
AG: Ugh, yes, I can c8nfirm that.  
AG: Karkat's hive is full of shitty easily f8und passages!  
CT: D --> That is highly irregular  
AG: Yeah, what kind of passage just lies there where people can find it?  
AG: Not any passage you can call secret!!!!!!!!  
CT: D --> That is not what I meant  
CT: D --> It is uncommon for lowb100ds to build their hives with concealed passageways  
AG: Why? It's not like the drones would even understand what the door is there for!  
AA: no Vriska hes right  
AA: we are not given enough building material to spend in such frivolities  
AA: you were able to build a ridiculous-looking castle with labyrinthine insides  
AA: but i had to be very careful with my resources!  
AA: the same goes for Tavros  
AA: and i would have assumed Karkat as well  
GC: UM  
AA: though I dont know how big his hive is  
GC: 1V3 B33N TO H1S H1V3 F41RLY R3C3NTLY  
AA: yes?  
AA: really? 0_0  
AG: Ooooooooh!!!!!!!!  
CC: GLUB!  
CC: W)(y, Terezi! T)(is is a public forum!  
AG: Naughty girl!  
CC: 3>8D  
AG: :::;)  
CC: 3> 8D

twinArmageddons [TA] is sending PLUGIIN_UPDATE_0.2.exe

TA: there, now you guy2 can even giive a 2iilly name to the chat wiindow.  
CC: 3>8D  
TA: ...what the hell diid ii come back to.  
CT: D --> E%use me  
CC: 3> 8D  
CA: your fuckin demise that's wwhat

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is idle --

TA: 2hut up ED.  
GC: BLUUUUUH 1 KN3W YOUR TH1NKP4NS WOULD FLY STR41GHT 1NTO TH3 B1OLOG1C4L W4ST3 SLU1C3  
CA: that's high lord snappertail to you  
TA: let me niip this bull2hiit iin the bud.  
TA: ii wa2 there two.  
CA: oooh kinky sol  
TA: remember when he went MIIA on hii2 own wriiggliing day?

\-- apocalypseArisen [AA] has renamed "2HIITTY CHAT PLUGIIN.exe" to "emergency meeting" --

TA: wiith that 2ad liittle away me22age about goiing 2omewhere he diidn't want two bee and doiing thiing2 he diidn't want two do or 2omethiing liike that?  
AA: oh  
TA: that wa2 when.  
TA: ii know you guy2 all breathed a biig gu2ty 2iight of reliief when he went riight back two beiing hii2 u2ual 2tar2hiiny 2elf the very next niight but 2ome of u2 were 2tiill worriied.  
TA: aliive doe2n't mean unharmed and KK wa2 beiing damn cagey about where he'd been.  
GA: It Does Sound More Ominous When Put That Way  
GC: Y34H, 1T TURNS OUT M3, SOLLUX, 4ND G4MZ33 4LL H4D TH3 S4M3 1D34  
TA: hehehe, tho2e two were ba2iically eyeiing each other liike famii2hed barkbea2t2.  
TA: 2niiffiing each other'2 butt2 and all, liiterally iin one ca2e.  
GC: OH BLUUUH.  
TA: 2park2 flyiing every whiich way, heiightened rii2k of 2pontaneou2 pant2 combu2tiion, all the good 2tuff.  
CC: 3> 8D  
CC: 3>8D  
CC: 3> 8D  
TA: but me and GZ, we were able two ju2t about control the 2iituatiion.  
CC: 3>8D  
TA: mo2tly becau2e anythiing quadrant-related become2 exponentiially more awkward iin the pre2ence of a 2toned clown.  
AG: 8ahahahahahahaha! Doesn't it j8st.  
AG: Stupid goddamn clown!!!!!!!!  
AA: he still hasnt joined the chat has he?  
GC: C4N W3 PL34S3 G3T B4CK TO TH3 TOP1C 4T H4ND?  
AA: nor is he answering my messages 0_0  
AA: im starting to worry  
GC: R3 K4RK4TS H1VE  
GC: 1TS B1GG3R TH4N YOURS BUT NOT 3NOUGH TO F1T 3XTR4N3OUS S3CR3T P4SS4G3S  
GC: HOW3V3R

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is no longer idle --

CT: D --> My apologies  
GC: 1F 4S YOU S4Y K4RK4T 1S 3XP3CT3D TO COM3 1N FROM ON3 OF TH3S3 P4SS4G3S  
CT: D --> I needed a towel  
GC: TH3N TH4T M34NS H1S P4SS4G3S L34D OUTS1D3 4ND NOT TO OTH3R 1NN3R CH4MB3RS 4S 1N VR1SK4S H1V3  
GC: 4ND H1S H1V3S 4RCH1T3CTUR3 DO3S L3ND 1TS3LF TO CONC34L1NG N4RROW 3SC4P3 CORR1DORS 1 TH1NK  
AG: Yeah, these passages all lead underground!  
AA: 0_0  
AG: This guy even had some of them followed, 8ut they didn't even try to go very far in.  
CT: D --> That truly does fly in the face of architectural convention  
AG: They're all stupid and easily 8ored, trust me.  
AG: I'm in the commander's head and HE is 8ored out of his mind.  
AG: So I'm taking the li8erty of making him 8OREDER.  
AG: Until he decides following a lead is more fun than w8ing!  
GA: That Does Sound Like It Could Work  
GA: He Could Still Command Some Of Them To Stay Behind And Wait Though  
AG: Not if I screw with their heads too!  
GC: HOW WOULD K4RK4T D1G UND3RGROUND 3SC4P3 TUNN3LS THOUGH?  
GC: UNL3SS H3 H4D H3LP  
GC: OR P3RH4PS TH3Y W3R3 TH3R3 TO B3G1N W1TH?


	9. > Go back to being Karkat

You are Karkat Vantas and you know these pitch-dark tunnels like the back of your own fucking hand.

In fact, considering you can't recall any particular characteristic which would differentiate the back of your hand from anybody else's, it wouldn't be hyperbole to claim you know these tunnels _better_ than the back of your own fucking hand. They're your secret to always being the first in line on the release date of each new rom-com: you don't have to worry about the burning sun when you can navigate safely where it won't reach and wait in the cool shade until it sets. Being part of the Cult does have its perks, otherwise you'd have culled yourself a long time ago. (You still haven't found any perk to being _worshipped_ by them, though.)

This path in particular is quite fresh in your mind, since you often used it in the aftermath of Tavros' accident.

You've been running for longer than you care to think about, and your lungs are burning with the effort. At least your new sylladex contains several fresh water bottles — you've already severely depleted them for an extra burst of energy.

Too much, perhaps. The air whipping around your ears and horns makes you think of the beach, the idea of studying the back of your hand makes you think of Gamzee, and you skip every few steps because running is just such an inefficient way of covering distances that it makes you want to _fly_ , to _swim through the fucking air_ —

Until the sound of crunched gravel reaches your ears and it suddenly hits you that the tunnels aren't a secret anymore and you're so high on water and moirallegiance that you're making a goddamn _racket_.

It takes you several tripping steps before you can halt your momentum, but when you do you find that the noise is not actually your fault at all: it's continuous and growing steadily louder, and not at all like any creature's footsteps you've ever heard. You're pretty sure the approaching circle of weak, shivery brightness just barely highlighting the rock wall isn't a trick of your eyes either.

You freeze, because that's just what you damn do, but you don't have time to freak out before the dead half-light is close enough that you can recognize the squat, square shape approaching you on wheels. It — or rather, he — mirrors your very own look of startled disbelief.

"Karkat?" he stutters, raising the source of weak light — a bulky, flickering illuminating device bundled in a shirt — and yep, it's Tavros. There's no mistaking those horns, or the fairy bull peeking out at you from behind his head.

 

  
  


 

The two of you stand (or sit) still for a truly awful amount of time, staring open-mouthed at each other — you have to make a conscious decision to break the silence, since apparently Tavros can't be assed to be proactive even to fill awkward pauses.

"...How?" is all you manage at first. He's still staring in wide-eyed confusion, though, so you dredge deep into the core of your soul for more words to squeeze out. "How do you know about this tunnel, Nitram. For god's sake, _who brought you here_."

If Tavros turns out to be a cultist, you're just going to have to sit down and give up on everything.

"Uh," he mumbles, shrinking into his shoulders while his eyes glance wildly around. "I... I don't think this is the best place for a conver—"

You move behind him before he's done talking and push the chair in the direction you came from, as fast as you can without breaking into a run. "You can talk while you roll, I presume," you say testily. Tinkerbull is chilling in a pouch hanging from the back of the rolling device, and buries himself up to his horns when you glare down. You feel kind of awful, so you focus on the path instead of his watery silver eyes.

The muffled light shifts, and through the crunching of his wheels and your sneakers you hear something that sounds a lot like Tavros swallowing before he finally raises his voice.

"I, uh, got this message from a guy who—"

"Who was using my trollian handle, I know," you interrupt. "I got to take a nice long look at the vandalism perpetrated against my hive before absconding the fuck out, and that included my computer. He talked to everyone, not just you."

"Yes," he says, his voice growing more hesitant. "But, Aradia got everyone together in a, a thing where everyone could go in, and talk at the same time, and everyone was talking about how you were in trouble, so—"

"Yes, yes, _yes!_ " you snap, pushing the chair a little faster to work off your anger. "And my trouble got everyone in trouble. Once again, my existence proves to be a blight upon the lives of everyone I know! I'm sure you were having some jolly good fun talking about how I screwed the whole lot of you by the simple act of being slated for culling—"

"I found the tunnel, on my own," he says, so softly you barely hear his words over your own.

You shut up entirely out of surprise, and only inertia keeps you moving through the following seconds. It's not everyday that Tavros has enough Rufio to interrupt one of your rants.

"I found it before... you know," he goes on, perhaps encouraged by your stunned silence. "It was during a FLARP session, I think, when I found this narrow entrance, behind a wall of moss and leaves..." his voice grows distant, dreamy. You can see him fiddle with the shirt he wrapped his lighting device with. "I had to turn sideways, to fit through, because of my horns, but it wasn't part of the scenario, so I didn't go in very far, because there was the time limit too. Anyway, I was going to go back, and explore later, maybe find some treasure, but..." he shrugs awkwardly, hugging his muffled light source. "At least this time I had an excuse, even if a terrible and sad one, to crawl in through the hole and explore—"

That's about when the tears explosively get the best of you, because _oh my fucking god he had to crawl_ —

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," you sob, because you're nothing if not an uncreative little shit, "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, oh my god Tavros, this is all, all this, my fault, oh my fuck. I should have never talked to _anyone_ and now everyone I ever talked to is on fucking cull row just because they _talked_ to me and—"

He starts chuckling, hunching into his shoulders even as he cranes his head back to glance at you — you push the wheeled device off in a panic to slap both sleeves on your wet cheeks, and then you have to run and trip after the thing because it took off at a ludicrous speed. You grasp the handles and are dragged for several meters, while the light source falls off Tavros' lap and rolls under his seat while shedding its cover, tripping you at the same time as it blinds you.

Predictably, you fall flat on your face, while Tavros appears to get his device under control just fine without your help. He deftly turns it around and wheels back to stare at you with wide worried eyes, because you are such a pathetic fuck-up even a cripple feels sympathetic—

"It's not your fault," he says, soothingly. "I was going to be culled anyway, as far as I know, no matter what you or anyone did, because of my legs, remember?"

You lower your head back down to the ground. You are such a pathetic fuck-up that you use your crippled friend's sympathy as food for your self-loathing.

"You do know you had nothing to do, with my losing use of my legs, don't you?" he asks, ever so helpfully. "Because, if that happens to not be the case, then I guess I have to make sure you're aware that, all facts examined from all sides, it was Vriska from beginning to end."

"I know," you choke out.

"But—"

"Tavros," you start, still sprawled face down in your misery, "The fact that I am a terrible person and also the cause of your current problems and that of a whole lot of other people is an immutable fact I am stating for the record. It does not mean unwarranted self-blame is what's taking place here."

"Uh, that does not seem very logically sound—"

"Shut up and let me feel miserable," you say, and hug the dirt for three more seconds. "Wait, no, fuck this, we don't have time for this, we're both in danger!" You push yourself up to your feet. "Where are you hiding?"

"Uh?" he asks.

"Did you even have a destination in mind when you left your hive, you quivering pile of uselessness, or were you hoping that if you got lost the threshecutioners wouldn't find you?"

"Um, mostly the latter," he confesses, hunching into his shoulders, "but I was also trying to go to Aradia's general direction, since she told me, in the big chat window, that if I went in her general direction I'd be safe, even if I didn't find her hive in the end..."

"That'd be because she was smart enough to not talk to strangers," you say, and when his brows furrow and he opens his mouth you raise a hand to interrupt him. "Look, no, sorry. I'm being an asshole because spouting the first pile of shit that comes to my head is how I deal with mortal danger. Ignore my drivel, it's the dribbling of a terrified loon." You sigh a deep calming sigh. "Anyway, Aradia's hive. Good call. It's always surrounded by spooky ghosts; even if you didn't reach her, they'd find you and hopefully take you there. And now that I found you, _I_ can take you there."

"Then," he hesitates, gripping the light and the shirt as you set them back on his lap and turn his chair around, "are these tunnels yours?"

You set off at a brisk running pace. "No," you say, even though they technically are. "They've been here forever. I just happened to find them—" more like be introduced to them at an early age "—but they've been useful."

"...and you don't get lost in them?"

"I know my way around," is all you say, because you just bit your tongue.

Tavros did actually manage to stay vaguely on course to Aradia's hive, despite being underground with no reference points. Sadly the tunnels don't work that way — to get to Aradia's you'd have to backtrack a little, and to get there with Tavros you'll have to backtrack a _lot_. Moving in a direct line would have taken him to a dead end at best, and to a long flight of stairs at worst.

Narrow holes like the ones in passage 12 are right out, because there's no way he can squeeze through with those horns. Most of the shortest routes involve stairs, too. You mentally trace possible paths and just as soon discard them: too narrow for horns, too steep for wheels, unsafe, caved in. You'll have to settle for "smallest amount of stairs".

The first flight you find is a nerve-wracking experience. You lean his chair back as much as you dare, and he grips the wheels with both hands for extra steadiness; the contraption still creaks and shudders at every step, bouncing dangerously and probably uncomfortably for the troll you're carrying. They feel like four steps into hell.

Soon other issues present themselves which you hadn't counted on at first: stalagmites, narrow paths hugging crevices, a crack on the floor too deep and wide for his wheels — things you'd cross or jump over with barely a thought, but which his device can't traverse or avoid. He goes so far as to suggest being thrown past the crack; you'd refuse even if you believed yourself strong enough to so much as lift him from his seat.

 

  
  


 

"I'm, um, I'm sorry," he stutters weakly, hunched into his shoulders and once again hugging his bundled source of light. "I know I'm, um, a bit of a burden—"

You tune him out, panting as you run and push the creaky contraption against the uneven ground. You've backtracked more times than you care to think about, and are starting to reach the end of your rope. Never mind getting to Aradia — getting to _her general direction_ is proving to be more of a challenge than you ever thought possible. You may just be farther away than you were at the beginning.

And then, because your day hasn't been shitty enough, something bursts out of a side corridor ahead of you — something neither of you heard over the sound of wheels crushing gravel, carelessly running shoes, panting breaths and the fearful pulse in your ears.

This something is a threshecutioner, and from the wild, predatory grin in his face you have a feeling he won't prove to be secretly part of the Cult.

He's panting nearly as much as you are — no doubt he heard you coming and hurried to reach you — but the glint in his eyes is as victorious as it is malicious. To your surprise, though, he pulls out a handheld communication device instead of jumping at your throats with a sickle.

For once in your miserable life, you don't freeze. Instead, one of your sickles flies out faster than you could put the action into words, and it traces a beautiful curve in the air before hitting the device straight out of his grip. It's a maneuver worthy of any action movie, made possible only by Tavros uncovering just enough of his illumination device to shine it straight into the guy's face. 

The threshecutioner grimaces and covers his eyes with a forearm, but other than that he doesn't seem particularly flapped. With a careless flick of his wrist he has his own sickles out, and goes back to sneering at you through his squinting. You assume he's particularly invested in gloating.

You step between the threshecutioner and Tavros' wheeled device, in complete disbelief of both your previous stunt and your own sanity, and bring out your sickles— 

Oh, wait. You recognize this weight, this texture, this grip.

These are your blunt practice sickles. 

Ah, well. The universe's omniscient Fuck-You machine is once again online after its momentary hiccup, and you're back to being an embarrassing fuck-up for as short a time as it'll take you to die miserably.

"So," the threshecutioner growls, leering in your general direction. Tavros really is doing a good job shining that light at his eyes. "Which one of you is—" sudden confused pause— " _Adiews To-ree-ey-door?_ "

"Uuh," Tavros warbles at your back. You try to push his device away with the sole of a foot. 

"Congratulations," you say, pushing a little harder because the damn thing won't budge. "You found me. Was it you at _Cancer Gnostic_ 's computer?"

"Maybe, maybe not," the guy sings, though you suppose if that was him he'd know you just said the wrong handle. Maybe. Hopefully. Oh, who are you kidding, these guys are all dumb as rocks.

And then he bends his knees and raises his arms in the single most appalling stance you've ever seen — and you train regularly in a room surrounded by mirrors — and you have the sudden feeling the universe isn't done being suspiciously generous to you yet.


	10. > Karkat: dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had computer issues, then my beta was swamped at school and I got a part-time job, so things were hectic for a while on the fic-writing front. Updates should go back to normal now. Hope you like the chapter!

The issue was already being heavily discussed about a sweep ago, although you didn't know it at the time. All you were aware of was that there was some disagreement among the Lore Masters and, because of the very teachings they claimed to follow, they couldn't very well resolve it the usual troll way.

Instead, every now and again you'd spot small groups gathered in corners, hissing so viciously spit flew out through their fangs. Whenever you were around they'd exchange mysterious little hints or coy asides which you (correctly) guessed were the continuation of a long-ongoing argument. It was all very passive- aggressive.

Throughout this bullshit the Grand Elder remained as impassive and impenetrable as a rock, and his face just as stony.

(You like the Grand Elder. He strikes you as someone who doesn't so much _believe_ in the Sufferer as he happens to think the Sufferer was a Guy who said Sensible Things. He's also a huge, looming hulk of a giant, so people tend to shut up and behave when he's around, even though he's never raised a finger or attempted to assert his authority in any way.)

So it came to be that you were sitting through one of your customary Health Checks -- a fancy way to call Being Poked With Chilly Blunt Mystery Tools and Having People Stare At Your Ineffectual Teeth And Measure Your Negligible Height -- when the three Elders who'd wandered in along with the nurses staged a very pleasant discussion about the Corruptibility of the Sacred, the Inherentness of Kindness, the Cruelty Of The World and the Shedding of Hallowed Blood. And at a certain point the Grand Elder, who was as always writing down whatever measures the nurses were taking, suddenly went tense around the shoulders and you totally expected him to flip the desk and start beating the shit out of them.

Instead, he set his stylus down and turned around to look at you through his inscrutably dark lenses.

"Karkat," he boomed out, and behind him the Elders bristled, because you just don't call the Grubloaf of Life by a name that won't mortify him, "as I'm sure you are aware of by now, the Elders have been discussing over your head a matter which directly concerns you."

You nodded. The Elders huddled in their cloaks and looked bashful.

"This is an issue raised by the Messenger," he continued. "Out of my own misguided worries I decided to discuss the matter with my peers, instead of bringing it to your immediate attention. This has proved to be a mistake. It is time for me to rectify it."

Oh, the Messenger. Of course. Whoever this elusive figure was, the Elders couldn't reach a consensus about him. All you knew of him was that he showed up every now and then (never when you were around), spouted some cryptic bullshit, laughed at everyone, and then had long private conversations with the Grand Elder in which he may or may not have been fooling, ensorceling or bamboozling the Oldest of the Lore Masters.

Half the Elders thought he was a sham, the other half thought he was a prophet. The halves sometimes flipped. It depended on whose agenda his cryptic bullshit seemed to be furthering.

Personally, you thought the Messenger was a great source of Elder Bickering Entertainment, and if the Grand Elder thought he was reliable, then you were okay with him.

But if this matter worried the Grand Elder, then it worried you twice over, because the Grand Elder was unflappable. You leaned forward on your hands, and may or may not have widened your eyes as well.

"He believes, and I agree, that you must be taught to defend yourself."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. You could hardly believe what you were hearing.

"He also believes, and I also agree, that you must be taught by a seasoned expert."

Holy shit. _Holy shit._ You were going to be learning how to grief from actual people with actual limbs, not just your lusus!

"He also believes, and this is the matter that worries me, that your lessons must start immediately and be as frequent as circumstances allow, so that you may reach an acceptable level of proficiency in under a sweep."

 _Holy shit the Messenger was your new best friend_ \-- Wait. Why would this worry him?

One of the Elders burst into tears.

"How _dare_ he suggest we maculate the purity of those sinless hands with blood shed in _violence!?_ " he said, pulling the sides of his hood down to dab at his tears before their color was seen. "To introduce him to battle is to irrevocably _tarnish_ his _soul!_ " The other two put sympathetic hands on his shoulder, their previous disagreement apparently forgotten. You just had no idea what drugs these guys were on sometimes.

"Clearly the Messenger has foreseen a Great Upheaval," oops, nope. Still bickering. "We dislike the notion as well, but if martial training will ensure the safety of the Carrier of Blood in dark times, then it is our belief that it must be done."

"Pah!" spat the third Elder, even as he papped the crying one gently on the shoulder. "The Messenger! Why rely on the words of an outsider, when we need but to look around ourselves? Our world is fraught with danger, and our young besieged by cruelty from all sides. We cannot shield the Night of the World from our reality, we can only prepare him for it. Only then will he be ready for his mission."

We, we, we. It was a clique war. You rolled your eyes and turned back to the Grand Elder, who had apparently been staring at you all along. Maybe gauging your reaction. You hoped. The Grand Elder could be a little creepy at times.

"It is your decision to make," he said gravely, and the Elders immediately bit down on their bickering. You even heard their collective intake of breath. "Do you accept training?"

You raised both fists above your head and said, " _Hell yes!_ "

==========>

Your appointed teacher was a Mid-level Guardian of the Scripture known among the cultists as Blade Dancer.

All cult members had some title they'd respond to among each other, instead of whichever other names or titles they held outside of it. These usually, but not always, consisted of two words with no real character limit -- because trading _kisMEsis_ for _KISmesis_ totally made you a rebel to the norms of society.

Of course, it was just another part of the whole anonymity shtick all cultists took part in, involving grey hooded cloaks, dark shades and no visible symbols except for those of the Signless. It gave the Cult the reputation of being a group of identity-less zombies with a hive mind that ate thoughts for breakfast. It was true insofar as listening to their bickering made a guy feel dumber after a while. 

Other than that, they were harmless -- and apparently _wanted_ to be that way. Even if they had to live underground under cloak and shades.

Blade Dancer had glasses that made him look like a surprised bug, and he was positively tiny under his cloak. It was clear why he'd been your chosen teacher, even though, at the time, you had still nursed the vain hope of having a growth spurt. Soon. Any time now.

His first lesson consisted of ten minutes of introducing the basic tools of a Threshecutioner -- the sickle, yes, but also various types of footwear, which took you by surprise -- and then two and a half hours of gushing about some guy called Troll Nijinsky.

"He was a _genius_ ," he'd said with a distant look of nostalgia, and you could swear his eyes were glowing behind the stupid shades. "During a time when being a Threshecutioner meant little more than _hook and pull_ , he made it into an _art form_. When it was little more than base savagery, he made it _beautiful_. Did you know? In the battlefields, armies would pause in their skirmishes to watch him turn his blades. The Condesce herself once demanded to see his technique at work! He displayed to her his most graceful forms, and she then set a host of Laughsassins on him and demanded he show them in practice. He incapacitated them all with nary a spatter on his armor! And then she appointed him the Thresh Master. After culling the old one, of course. But he was unhappy." He grasped his chest dramatically. "Oh tragic, tragic Nijinsky, so frail inside. One day he looked around himself and saw that his students were using his lessons with no passion other than that of killing. They did not believe in beauty for its own sake. No no no, they could not _comprehend_ it. They could not understand his unhappiness in having to use his skills for conquest! And one day he went silent and would not move or talk. He was broken inside, it was all too much for him. But when they came to cull him, he was gone. Disappeared. Poof." He flicked his fingers. "No sign of him. It remains a mystery. _He went into legend_."

Halfway through the spiel you had pretty much guessed you were sitting in front of Troll Nijinsky, who was a huge narcissist and perhaps slightly delusional. He was also _very, very good_ at Nijinsky style, probably by virtue of being Nijinsky.

The following lessons had been a bore and a chore, but during them you were never the Sufferer Reborn -- you were mostly an inept student, and it was as frustrating as it was a relief. You had to keep your legs straight _this_ way, and when you bent your knees you had to do it _this_ way, and your back had to _always_ be straight, your shoulders had to be set, no slouching, it will not make you look cool, it will make you unbalanced, open your feet a little wider, no no no do not lean on your big toe, you will stay on the thin shoes until you can keep your weight on the soles of your feet, curve your arms, no, relax your arms, now curve your arms, no, you are tensing your arms, you are raising your shoulders, keep your shoulders down, back straight, raise your chin, yes, now bend your knees halfway down, do not let them droop forward, keep them in the direction of your toes, there, that is your basic jumping stance, keep your butt in. Now jump. Stretch those toes! Cushion your fall! You will destroy your knees! Again, again! Open Stance, First Position! Shoulders down! Chin up! Butt in! Look in the mirror! What are you cupping with those hands, relax those hands!

That's all you can think about right now, standing in front of a threshecutioner cadet presumably trained by appointed officials -- that and the tears Blade Dancer would shed at the sight of his droopy knees, extended neck and tense shoulders. He's apparently attempting a _Forward Open Stance, Fourth Position_ , but his front knee isn't bent enough, his back knee isn't straight enough, his back foot isn't open enough and his front foot is leaning on its toe. He's so overextended he's got his weight smack-dab on his hips. It looks like he intends to do a _Counterwise Hurricane_ , a suitably impressive move if useless in a real battle, but his arms are in the wrong position.

You relax your shoulders, raise your chin, set your feet at _Closed Stance, Second Position_ and your arms at half-Second -- and you can clearly spot the moment the guy notices his chin is too far down.

It's common sense to protect one's neck in a battle. Common does not mean good. It leaves one's horns in grabbing range, for one thing, and unless one's horns are more than a foot long and point straight up, they're simply not viable weapons in a fight against any hand-held tool.

In Nijinsky style, keeping your neck straight is also crucial to keeping your balance in its flimsier stances. That sometimes involves compensating for a set of horns which may lean too far forward or back. Your horns will never be an issue; his, however, point forward. He can either raise his chin and show you a whole lot of neck to slice, or keep it where it is and be shown off by a six-sweeps-old.

He sneers and chooses to raise his chin... so far up he's leering at you through his nostrils. Is this guy even for real?

He predictably opens with the Counterwise maneuver, and the Blade Dancer in your head starts yapping just as soon.

_No no no, what are you doing, look at that foot, it is flapping in the wind, no no no, do not brace the sole of your foot against your knee, that is a terrible thing to do, it will shoot your balance, your supporting leg is not straight enough, you are wasting muscle strength on it, what are you doing with your elbows, they have no support, stop tensing your pointy finger, no no no, why are you not turning your head, it will make you dizzy, remember your spotting lessons, your head is the last to leave and the first to arrive, no no no, you cannot complete the turn on strength alone--_

Except this bastard can. Sloppy and terrible and with a ridiculous burst of strength, he surprises you by turning into a fucking hurricane of sickles and death rotating to a side which would momentarily befuddle even a normal battle-seasoned troll -- but you've seen this maneuver a thousand times from a much better fighter, and your dominant side also happens to be the opposite from pretty much every other troll ever except maybe your ancestor.

You shift into Forward Closed Fourth Position, which puts your head safely beneath the range of his blades, and with your arms in First you push the butt of your handles against his torso. Simple and basic. Now this tool is a fucking hurricane of sickles and death toppling over like the saddest spinning top.

He's got enough control of the fall to go down on his butt instead of his face -- but he sways on the floor for precious seconds, eyes rolling, all because he didn't practice his spotting. You don't wait around. You turn to push Tavros away...

...and stare straight into his light, because you are a _dumbass_.

"Shit!" You squeeze your eyes shut, but it's too late for that. You push anyway, blind, while Tavros babbles apologies and drops his shirt back over the burning glare, and you feel the contraption shudder and sink at one side right before he gives a loud gasp.

You feel the air move at your back and turn around at once, swinging your sickle blindly into the dark purple fog over your eyes. Your blood pusher seems to have jumped straight up into your throat. There's no way you can parry this strike, you have no idea where it's coming from--

Something yanks violently at your sickle, and only the terrified spasm locking your muscles maintains your grip. A millisecond later and your sickle feels ominously lighter in your fingers.

You pause in surprise and then think oh shit I'm dead why did I stop moving--

And then you see ( _oh thank god I'm not blind_ ) a white little shape swoop straight into the receding dark patch in your sight, giving you something to focus on as well as causing your assailant to step back in bewilderment. Tinkerbull?

" _Tinkerbull!_ " Tavros sobs at your back.

"Just run the fuck away!" you scream, keeping your eyes on the steadily clearing figure in front of you as it flails ineffectually. The momentary blindness seriously threw you off-balance; you settle into Lowered Second to compensate for the sudden unsteadiness on your feet.

"I can't," Tavros says, his voice oddly weak, and you're about to scream ' _then WHEEL away_ ' when he finally adds, "I think I'm jammed..."

You grit your teeth and glance down at the weirdly light sickle in your hand. It's broken, but not far enough down the blade to make it useless -- _what are you thinking_ , it's a blunt practice blade, it was always useless. You spare a thought to your strife deck, but you're painfully aware of the fact that you threw away your one good sickle at the very first turn of this battle.

You take a deep bracing breath and jump at the threshecutioner, intent on grabbing his attention before he kills the diminutive lusus. Tinkerbull wouldn't have lasted more than a few seconds anyway, or at least that's what you will tell yourself later when you look back on this clusterfuck of a fight.

In a single light-footed leap you get straight past his flailing arms, and with an extra deep bend of a steady knee you are now out of reach of his knobbly elbows. He lowers his left sickle -- it's always the left -- and you raise both of yours above your head in an X, handles first, because your blades are useless and you need to maximize blunt damage anyway.

His military-grade sickle snaps like a twig between yours, and with a single push of your forward foot you curl into a ball and roll back out of his range, screaming inside. He has no such compunctions; instead, he stares at his broken blade with wide shocked eyes and bared teeth for a whole second before screaming loud and hoarse, jumping after you with all pretense of technique and finesse forgotten.

You can see his every move coming from a mile away. He's not merely telegraphing them, he's IMing troll blingee pictures and waving huge sparkly flags with each wide swipe of a flailing arm, each kicking leg and each floppy foot. Even though physically keeping up with his superior strength and speed is taking every cell in your body...

You're better than he is. You are not quite as fast and not nearly as strong, but six-sweeps-old little you is keeping up with an older, taller, stronger, uniformed and armed threshecutioner cadet with nothing but basic stances and basic strikes. You're expecting self-consciousness to kick in any moment, your body to feel awkward and heavy and over-awareness of your movements to break your concentration, but it's just not happening. Those sickles keep falling on you like hammers, one broken and one whole, but you keep being able to redirect them, one after the other.

That one whole sweep of pointlessly bending your knees, waving your arms, adjusting your posture and flexing your feet in front of a mirror over and over appears to have paid off.

And then you risk one step forward, sickles bouncing against his, and the threshecutioner takes one step back and looks surprised at himself. Your confidence soars; you rise on the balls of your feet to meet his strikes before they're halfway formed, you risk fancier footwork and it flows effortless and beautiful out of you. You turn and turn on the balls of your feet, always moving forward and never losing sight of him, and the added momentum make your blunt sickles heavier than your muscles would ever allow as they bounce and block every one of his increasingly more desperate swipes. He trips on his heels as he shuffles back. _He is afraid of you_.

You stop your turning with a schoolfeedledger-perfect wind-down, feet wide open and knees bent low, and you leap higher than you ever have, front leg folded and back leg trailing straight as a board; in the back of your head Blade Dancer is dabbing behind his glasses with a smile and saying _remember to cover your torso during an Airborne Attack_ , but you're already on it, your forearms covering your head and chest. Your shadow is suddenly huge on the walls and ceiling; Tavros has once again revealed his illumination device, and you can't deny he has a great sense of dramatic timing.

The threshecutioner squeezes his eyes closed, jumps back and raises his weapons in defense -- but he's still in your range, and you kick the broken sickle straight out of his grasp when you snap your front leg straight. And then, as you descend and come level with his face, you aim for his temples and snap your arms open to knock him out with the blunt curve of your sickles.

Instead, you draw a glittering wet line from one side of his forehead to the other, and terrible lukewarmth spatters on your face.

You have no attention to spare for your perfect landing. Your eyes are glued to the broken, _sharp_ edge of your otherwise blunt sickle, because it's coated in teal. Your blood-pusher plummets while your bilesac rises, and your blood flees from your facial capillaries in horror.

You drop both sickles and trip blindly backwards until you hit a wall. You can't breathe. _You can't breathe_.

"Karkat!" a distant voice calls, and 

oh 

fuck 

Tavros 

wait what are you doing where's the guy you're still in danger--

The illumination device flies straight past your face, burning a purple line in your retinas, and the resulting crash and strangled scream comes from way too fucking close to your ears.

You pounce back towards Tavros and nearly fall into his lap in your hurry to push, but his chair is swaying lopsidedly and it really, definitely won't budge, not even with Tinkerbull's help. It's stuck in a crack wide enough to make it troublesome and oh fuck you can hear the approaching snarl of your angry assailant.

You turn back to him, take a step forward and remember you just tossed your sickles down in a panic; they're glinting somewhere past the frothing, bloodied, _furious_ face that's looming over you with one sickle raised high. 

Your mind skitters, scratches, and freezes; you grab Tavros's chair and bow your torso over his head, and a line of fire crosses your back from shoulder to hip, spreading hot chill into your veins.

It awakens you. You turn on the attacker with a despair and fury you did not know yourself capable of, understanding that you can't save yourself and you can't save Tavros, and push him away pathetically, bare-handed, arms shaking from wrist to shoulder. He trips back in bewilderment, but only spares a second of confusion at the red blood coating his weapon before grinning at you with renewed viciousness. You open your arms wide and bare your teeth in return. You'll make his life harder to your very last second.

Then a soft breeze brushes the side of your face, and the threshecutioner spontaneously sprouts a lance through the chest.

He stands there, staring at you, red-coated sickle still raised halfway and an expression of mild surprise in his bloodied face. You glance at the lance, terrified and uncomprehending, before going back to his eyes.

And then he softly leans back and topples over with a sound like a sack of edible roots. His torso is awkwardly propped up by the huge fucking stick currently running it through, and it makes him look like a damaged puppet, crumpled and forgotten in some nightmare circus' corner.


	11. > Karkat: crash

You're standing in front of an impaled corpse, your weaponless arms open in a mockery of embrace, and your whole body is stiff with fear. The pain in your back is dull but insistent, throbbing in time with your pulse and slowly blooming with an insidious burning sting.

"Karkat, um," Tavros warbles at your back, and his voice is shaking with the same fear you're feeling. The lance was his — you were just saved by a cripple. It was a nice throw, though. "Are you okay?"

No. It has just occurred to you that you have a bleeding gash on your back and it's in Tavros' direct line of sight. 

For a moment you wonder whether the throw was aimed at the back of your head, but not even you can fool yourself so blatantly. Either it's dark enough that he thinks you're rust, or he doesn't care. You can live with both options.

You force your arms down, and it feels like bending boards. Now that you've begun the process, though, your whole body starts to sag on you, and the cut on your back upgrades from dull sting to full-on roaring burn. You sway on your feet, step back and lower your center of gravity. Blade Dancer would be so proud, except for the part where you panicked and threw your weapons down in a fit of whatever. You don't even know.

You hear Tavros calling you, a strange and muffled sound; Tinkerbull flutters close to your head, and his flapping wings provide you with a much needed breeze. You take a deep breath and deeply regret it when your wound screams in complaint.

"I'm okay," you lie blatantly, managing somehow to turn around and take a couple of swaying steps to his jammed device. He stares at you with wide worried eyes, which you ignore in favor of glaring balefully at his wheels. Some light would be welcome now; too bad your one source is now merrily burning out its last little filaments after saving your butt.

"You, um, you look terrible," he mumbles hesitantly, raising an unsteady hand, but he's not your moirail and has no business papping you.

Thinking of Gamzee gives you a burst of strength. You grasp both his wheels and squeeze out, "Help me here," through your strained throat, and your combined efforts finally allow you to clear the crack — only for you to stick a foot in it and hit the bottom half a meter down with a very painful jolt. Getting your leg out of the pathetic little hole becomes another huge production thanks to the sudden onset of sluggishness you're stricken with.

Reaching Aradia is right out. She's too far to risk in your condition: you can't remember which path you intended to take anymore, and you can barely stay on your feet. By the time you're back on the road you're not so much pushing the wheeled device as you're leaning on it.

 

 

It's a good thing that knowing these paths better than the back of your hand hasn't stopped being a thing. Aradia is too far to limp to, but once you get your bearings you find that the safest place you know is unexpectedly close.

You're so distracted with fumbling a working path in your brain that Tavros talking to you doesn't register until Tinkerbull flies up in your face.

" _Karkat!_ " he's hissing — no, he's actually being surprisingly loud, and that kind of wakes you up from your torpor. You try to crane your neck over the back of his chair to look at his face, but your whole back is a stiff mess of cramping burns and ow ow fucking fuckety _fuck_ it really fucking hurts oh god what is this cut.

Still, you manage to peek far enough to spot the gaping darkness of a sudden flight of stairs, moderately sized. And you nearly pushed a cripple down it.

"Tavros," you say — or rather you cough, because your mouth is sandy and weird. You poke blindly into your sylladex and it's nearly a miracle that you grasp a water container on your first try. You can't raise your head to drink, though, and not merely because of the pain; you _want to_ but it's not happening. Instead, you squeeze the bottle with strength born of greed and inhale water for two glorious seconds before you're interrupted by the most painful coughing fit you've ever experienced.

Tavros is the one trying to twist his neck to peer at you now. You shake your head stiffly, water trailing down your chin and soaking your sweater.

"I can't stairs," you explain, voice still much too hoarse. "Can't... your device. Lift. Lift your device."

He looks back ahead and you hear him take a deep sighing breath, but you can't even work yourself into being offended. You have no time to, either, because his device suddenly blinks out of view and he plops ass-first onto the rocky ground, his legs freakishly boneless, his claws scratching deep bracing groves on the stone wall.

He turns his head around to smile at you. "I can go down like this," he says, patting the floor knowingly. You watch as he adjusts his thin, rubbery legs so they're braced two steps down, and then he pushes himself down one step and repeats the maneuver.

You lean on the wall opposite him and gently lower a foot. Your back is assaulted by rabid red-hot claws, ha ha, red-hot, get it, oh fuck. You take quick shallow breaths and wipe the sweat trickling down your cheek, then feel vaguely ashamed for making this look harder than a cripple does. You grit your teeth and lean your weight on the lower step, a maneuver which introduces you to a whole new world of pain — who knew you needed so many back muscles to use your legs?

After a few more steps your back becomes one single continuous burn, but if anything it encourages you to move a little faster. Tavros reaches the bottom and decaptchalogues his wheeled device while you struggle with the stairs; by the time you join him, he's already made himself comfortable on his seat. You're useless and your everything hurts.

You'd love nothing more than to crumple down in a faint, and the only thing keeping you on your feet is the threat of even more excruciating pain.

"I think I'm poisoned," you mumble, your lips feeling rubbery and numb, and then your own words hit you. You're poisoned. You're _dying_. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck everything is pain and cramps and your breath is stuck in your throat and you can't pull it in and you can't push it out you're suffocating because the poison is _killing you_ —

"Oh, _no_ ," says Tavros, and you take some time from dying to shake a weak fist at him because fuck him for being so fucking mild, seriously, he might as well be drinking tea with his pinky sticking up for all the impact your very serious discovery made on him, and then you lean harder against the wall because you seriously think you're blacking out, yes, you're totally blacking out, water, you need water, water is good and it is always the answer—

You decaptchalogue the first card you find in your sylladex, and a small tube falls out of it, clattering to the floor with the most mundane and dry sound imaginable. You're momentarily distracted from your impending death by the utter _strangeness_ of its design; it's neatly divided in half, one black and one white, and reminds you an awful lot of Sollux.

You stare at it in distant confusion. You have no clue what it is, what it does and what it's made of. The sound it made and the way it bounced as it fell didn't match its apparent weight. You can't begin to tell why it even fascinates you so; maybe you're just wishing it was water. That's about the only thing you can determine about this mystery object: that it contains no water for you.

You suddenly remember that you were suffocating — only now you're not, so it's kind of a moot point. You locate a water bottle and decaptchalogue it, but your neck is still too stiff to bend and your fingers have no strength to squeeze the bottle with.

"We need to find help for you," says Tavros, his voice slightly shaky. You'd nod, only if you could nod you could drink this water too. It taunts you. You cover the bottle's mouth with your numb lips and try to suck the water out, but all you manage to do is swallow air and subject yourself to another extremely painful coughing fit. _Why didn't they think to pack a straw._

"Karkat, I'm sorry to nag," says Tavros, thoughtlessly interrupting your hacking with little regard to the uncontrollable spasms racking your mutant breathing apparatus, "but, um, it appears you need urgent help, and I have no idea where we are, so I was thinking, maybe we should give up on going to Aradia, and just find whoever is closest..."

"Yes," you rasp, and try to push off the wall with your shoulder — _try_ being the operative word. You flat out can't. Your back is a gnarled mess of pain which refuses to move as you wish, and your legs appear baffled by the signals you're sending. You add a hand to help in the effort of pushing away, but unfortunately your remaining one can't handle the weight of the bottle; it slips from your fingers, hitting the ground with a slap and spilling water everywhere—

That of all things gets you to move. A gasp escapes your throat as you reach for the fallen bottle, quickly replaced by a pained cry when the movement stretches your wound. You squeeze your eyes shut and press a little harder against the wall, but now that you've unlocked your knees they're buckling despite all your efforts to not collapse.

Tinkerbull swoops down to the rescue, salvaging your bottle and part of its contents, and you follow him with thirsty eyes even as you slowly slide down the wall. You're mostly resigned to face-planting on the rocky ground when you feel a sudden, firm grip on your arm as Tavros guides your toppling body toward his lap.

Falling on those bony knees may just be the most excruciatingly painful experience of your life, surpassing by far the unfortunate occasion in which you slipped during practice and achieved a perfect 180° leg opening long before you were ready for it. Having your crotch muscles suddenly and violently stretched while your bulge hits the floor under your weight feels almost pedestrian next to this.

This is a conclusion you will reach in hindsight. Right now your body is impacting against an uncomfortably hard surface, and the shock of it runs through your wound in such a way as to make all the surrounding muscles, already cramped and stiff from poison, seize and pull and subject you to entirely new levels of agony. This in turn causes your body to convulse momentarily, affecting the mess of your back in several other novel ways, by which point your brain just gives up and blacks out.

Until you feel water soaking down your back, that is. It's like the sweetest of blessings. A thick voice is mumbling and sniffling close to your ear, and when you try to lift your head you hit something cylindrical. You're sitting on someone's legs and your head is on their shoulder while they gently run water on your wound.

Oh, _Gamzee_.

" _Karkat!_ " someone sobs, with a voice that is distinctly not Gamzee's. "I thought you were _dead_ , tell me you're awake, tell me where to go—"

Oh no. This lap belongs to Tavros. Oh, _Gamzee_. Will he ever forgive your infidelity?

You manage to push off his shoulder, but that's about as far as you get before you're reminded of just why you fainted in the first place. You let your head fall on his chest, guide the bottle to your lips with a hand, swallow the little that is left, and you pity your moirail like you're blind but _he will just have to deal_.

Tavros captchalogues the bottle once you're finished with it, and then stares down at you with an anxious, tear-streaked face. "Um," he starts.

"Straight ahead," you whisper.

He pushes something light and weirdly smooth in your hands before wheeling on — the tube you just dropped, its white half now glowing gently. Figures that the cult would make sure you had the most bafflingly designed source of illumination ever. You raise it as far as your heavy arm can go, which isn't very high but is enough to let you see where you are. You're on track. Not much longer now.

The remaining trip is silent and ominous and, to you, full of weirdly blank stretches. At one point you have to leave the chair to brave another flight of stairs — thankfully a short one — which you climb on your butt like Tavros did, swaying and with your head light and floaty, but nothing else worth noting sticks to your mind. You might have been too zonked out to retain memories after that point. 

It is during a moment of clarity, as you stare at the illumination tube ensconced in a fold of your sweater, that you suddenly wonder where you are and sort of notice you can't remember telling Tavros to take any turn; you do know your way around these tunnels, but you had no idea you were capable of navigating them while delirious. 

You feel too heavy to look around yourself, lazy and nearly comfortable in the floaty haze drifting above the pain — but you can still recognize these walls from your angle, and so you're not the least bit surprised when Tavros tenses and freezes beneath you.

He's trembling. You'd pap him, but your hand feels ever so heavy and he's not Gamzee anyway.

"P-please don't cull us," he pleads, voice shaky and high, wrapping your shoulders protectively with a trembling arm. You turn your head a bit, just enough to peek at whatever he's looking at.

 

 

A gray-shrouded and be-shaded figure is stepping out from a hidden alcove, daggers in hand — which he immediately drops. Another figure runs out after him, takes one look at you, and starts hitting a completely nondescript section of wall while screaming for help.

Welp, you made it.

Welcome to the Dark Hive, you want to say to Tavros, but your mouth is full of dust.


	12. > join "vvris is a butt wwho smells my b"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no illustrations in this chapter! It's a huge honking chatlog, there was really nothing to draw. I'll make up for it in the next one!

\-- adiosToreador [AT] has joined "vvris is a butt wwho smells my b" \--

CT: D --> Regardless, I do not feel particularly amenable to the idea of possibly risking my life for a mutantb100d   
GC: 1 R3FUS3    
GC: TO B3L13V3    
CT: D --> Even if that mutantb100d is him   
AA: equius i expected better of you   
GC: YOU 4R3 4CTU4LLY TYP1NG THOS3 WORDS   
AT: uHHH,   
TA: fuck you.   
TA: ju2t fuck you.   
AA: hello tavros   
GA: Ignoring For The Moment The Fact That We Are All Equally In Danger Except Possibly For Feferi Peixes   
GA: Regardless Of Your Lack Of Enthusiasm At The Thought Of Helping A Friend In Need Who May Or May Not Possess Unusual Blood   
GC: 3QU1US MY D1S4PPO1NTM3NT R1GHT NOW D3F13S D3SCR1PT1ON 4ND SO DO3S MY 4NG3R   
GA: Banding Together To Ensure Our Mutual Safety Is Our Best Hope Of Survival And When I Say Our That Includes Yours Too   
AT: wHAT IS GOING ON,   
CA: cmon eq thats just fuckin unconscionable    
GA: Yet I Do Not Feel Particularly Amenable To The Idea Of Possibly Risking My Life For A Prejudiced Hypocritical Blueblood Right Now   
CA: hey tavv evveryfin is messed up   
CA: vvris dropped a fuckin bomb in here and then vvanished   
GA: It May Have Something To Do With How Youre Willing To Throw Him Under The Metaphorical Collective Transportation Device Now When Not Too Long Ago You Were Not   
AT: uM, tHIS ALL SEEMS TO BE VERY SERIOUS,   
AT: aND i HATE TO INTERRUPT, bUT,   
GC: WH4T 4BOUT N3P3T4 3QU1US?   
GC: C4N YOU LOOK H3R 1N TH3 F4C3 4ND R3P34T THOS3 WORDS?   
TA: 2hiit, there’2 that two.   
GC: 1 TH1NK NOT!   
AT: i GOT A MESSAGE FROM KARKAT, bUT IT DIDN’T SOUND LIKE HIM AT ALL,   
CT: D --> You are being deliberately obtuse   
AA: thats why were all here tavros!   
CT: D --> In any other situation I w001d not hesitate in showing him support to the best of my ability   
GC: H3Y T4VROS    
AT: hEY,   
CT: D --> He displays a high level of intelligence and has no apparent malformities   
CT: D --> E%cept perhaps for his bizarrely rounded horns   
GC: SCR3W YOU H1S HORNS 4R3 P3RF3CT   
TA: 2crew you, hii2   
TA: oops, jiinxed. hehe.   
AT: aNYWAY, aBOUT THIS MESSAGE i GOT, wHICH CAME FROM KARKAT’S TROLLIAN HANDLE BUT DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE HIS,   
CT: D --> I sincerely believe that it would be more a%eptable for such a high fun%ioning mutant to serve the Empire in life rather than in death   
AT: i MAY HAVE ANSWERED IT, bEFORE NOTICING SOMETHING WAS AMISS   
CT: D --> Maintaining the purity of our genetic slurry would be a simple case of not a%epting his contribution

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] has renamed "vvris is a butt wwho smells my b" to "EQ ii2 a 2weaty douchebag" --

CT: D --> However in the current circumstances I can only assume he is being pursued for reasons beyond a mere mutation   
GA: What Do You Mean Assume   
AA: equius weve only been discussing this possibility for the last twenty minutes   
AT: aND NOW i DON’T KNOW, wHAT TO DO,   
CT: D --> I am aware of this fact   
CT: D --> Allow me to be blunt in this case   
CT: D --> And raise the possibility that he is involved in something e%tremely illegal   
AT: iS KARKAT OKAY,   
CC: Okay, I’m back! Sorry aboat that.   
CC: W)(at did I miss?   
CT: D --> Such as one of the rebel groups or heretic cults which proliferate among the lowb100ded masses   
AA: equius dont make me fly over there and kick your ass   
AT: wAS HE HACKED OR SOMETHING,   
TA: dude, KK ii2 two 2mart two get iinvolved wiith tho2e nutter2.   
GC: 1 C4NT H3LP T4K1NG NOT1C3 OF TH3 F4CT TH4T YOU N3V3R CONS1D3R3D TH1S POSS1B1L1TY B3FOR3 TH1S T4LK OF MUT4T1ON W4S R41S3D   
CT: D --> In such a case this stops being merely about my safety   
GA: As Terezi Said You Did Not Seem To Make Any Such Assumption Before Vriska Brought Up Her Findings   
CT: D --> And becomes an issue of fraternizing with dangerous undesirables while allowing my moirail to do the same   
AT: wHAT IS THIS ABOUT A MUTATION,   
GC: M1GHT 1 R3M1ND YOU TH4T WH3TH3R OR NOT H3S 1NVOLV3D W1TH 1LL3G4L GROUPS DO3SNT M4K3 US 4NY L3SS 1N D4NG3R?   
AT: uHH,,,   
CT: D --> You may not believe me but Nepeta is my greatest priority at the moment   
GC: W3LL N3P3T4 WOULD W4NT TO H3LP HIM!   
CT: D --> I cannot overemphasize how much I hope she is delayed on her way   
CT: D --> My only wish is for her to remain uninvolved in this debacle   
GC: YOUR F33L1NGS 4R3 UND3RST4ND4BLE BUT FUT1L3!   
GC: 4S SOON 4S SH3 R34CH3S H3R C4V3 SH3S GO1NG TO S1T DOWN W1TH H3R DR4W1NG T4BL3T 4ND LOG 1N TO L3T YOU KNOW SH3 M4D3 1T   
TA: your moiirallegiiance ii2 2weet but you know what, ii’m ju2t goiing two let TZ talk, 2he’s on a roll.   
GC: 4ND SH3LL B3 SP4MM3D BY M3SS4G3S T4LK1NG 4BOUT HOW H3R FLUSH CRUSH H4D H1S H1V3 1NV4D3D 4ND HOW H1S CURR3NT WH3R34BOUTS 4R3 UNKNOWN   
GC: NOT TO M3NT1ON TH3 ON3 TH4T C4M3 FROM TH3 1NV4D3R H1MS3LF!   
AT: oH NO,   
AT: tHAT IS TERRIBLE,,,   
AA: tavros didnt you read any of my messages?   
AT: sORRY, i THOUGHT i WAS IN AN EMERGENCY,   
GC: W41T WH4T?   
CT: D --> Can you not wait   
CT: D --> We are in the middle of an important discussion   
CC: --EVERYONE S)(UT TH--E GLUB UP RIGHT NOW.   
AT: bUT CLEARLY kARKAT IS IN GREATER NEED, sO TO SAY,   
AT: oH, sORRY,   
CC: --EQUIUS, BY ROYAL D--E--ECR--E--E I ORD--ER YOU TO STOP B--EING SUCH A GLUBBING DOUC)(--EBAG.   
AT: mY BAD,   
CT: D --> Uh   
CC: NO ON--E IS CULLING KARKAT, P--ERIOD.   
CC: Not you, Tavros!   
GC: 1 W4SNT P4Y1NG 4TT3NT1ON TO YOU 4T 4LL, SORRY >:[   
CC: You’re right, you’re in an emergency!   
CC: But everyone just kept on carping right over you.   
GC: WH4T 1S YOUR 3M3RG3NCY?   
AT: oH,   
CC: )(e answered t)(e impostor by accident!   
AT: yES,    
TA: how doe2 that even happen, how do you an2wer a guy by acciident.

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is idle --

TA: ...   
GC: GOOD QU3ST1ON   
AA: tavros my very first message was asking everyone NOT to do that   
AT: oH, i DIND’T READ IT,    
AT: wHAT HAPPENED WAS THAT i OVERSLEPT,   
AT: aND WHEN i HEARD THE TROLLIAN CHIME i WAS STILL IN MY COON,   
AT: sO i TRIED TO HURRY OUT OF IT,   
AT: bUT MY WHEELED DEVICE HAPPENED TO HAVE ROLLED DOWN THE RAMP,   
AT: aND OUT OF MY REACH,   
AT: aND IT ROLLED BADLY, SO,   
AA: 0_0   
AT: iT WAS FALLEN SIDEWAYS oFF THE RAMP,   
GC: T4VROS YOU R34LLY N33D 4 D1FF3R3NT COON MOD3L   
CC: Or at least a better w)(eeled device!   
CC: Too bad we don’t know any seawety jerks wit)( a fin for mec)(anics O)( WAIT   
AT: tHEN i TRIED TO CRAWL DOWN THE RAMP AFTER IT, bUT i SLID DOWN IT INSTEAD, bECAUSE OF THE SOPOR THAT WAS STILL ON ME,    
CA: wwoww tav youre alwways gettin into all sorts a pickles   
AT: aNYWAY, i WILL SPARE YOU ALL THE DETAILS,   
GA: Too Bad This Sounds Like It Could Be An Entertaining Story   
AT: sUFFICE TO SAY, iT WAS ALL EXTREMELY SILLY,    
GA: In Retrospect That Was Uncalled For   
TA: yeah, gee, KN.   
GA: I Didn’t Mean To Imply That I Derive Amusement From Your Tragic Hardships   
AT: iT’S OKAY,   
TA: that 2ure ii2 what iit 2ounded liike, though.   
AT: i GUESS SOMETIMES IT’S SO SAD, iT GOES BACK TO BEING FUNNY,   
AT: aNYWAY,   
GC: 1 DONT 3V3N KNOW WH4T TO S4Y H3R3   
AT: WHEN i FINALLY REACHED MY HUSKTOP, aND SAW THE GRAY TEXT,   
AT: i THOUGHTLESSLY ANSWERED BACK, bEFORE READING ITS CONTENTS,   
AT: aSSUMING IT WAS kARKAT, aND HE MAY HAVE BEEN IN A HURRY,   
AA: im going to forgive you for that because its apparent that you were discombobulated at the moment   
AT: aND THEN, tHIS STRANGER KEPT SENDING MESSAGES,   
GA: Discombobulated Is A Good Word   
AT: aND IN MY CONFUSION,   
AT: i MAY HAVE ENGAGED HIM IN CONVERSATION,,,,   
AA: but that right there i simply cannot excuse

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is no longer idle --

AT: i REALLY AM SORRY FOR THAT,   
AT: i AM MOST DEFINITELY REGRETTING IT RIGHT NOW,   
CT: D --> My apologies   
AT: tHOUGH i’M ALSO WORRIED ABOUT kARKAT, sINCE YOU SEEM TO BELIEVE THIS IS AN INVADER,   
CT: D --> I required a fresh batch of towels   
AT: aND NOT A HACKER, aS i’D FIRST ASSUMED,   
CT: D --> Understandable   
CT: D --> I had assumed the same   
CT: D --> And reacted accordingly   
AT: i SEE,   
CT: D --> I believe it is appropriate to misdire%t the impostor by wielding your superiority in the hemospectrum   
CT: D --> Being a mutant means he does not have the right to request the address even of a brownb100d anyway   
AT: uHH,,,   
GC: 3QU1US WHY 4R3 YOU SO P3RS1ST3NTLY T3RR1BL3   
CT: D --> Treat this impostor as an inferior   
CT: D --> He will assume you are cognizant of the importance of the hemospectrum in our society and praise you for it   
AT: i DON’T THINK i CAN DO THAT,,,,   
AT: i JUST DON’T THINK OF kARKAT AS INFERIOR AT ALL,   
CT: D --> That is because of his force of personality   
CT: D --> Which I recognize is praiseworthy   
CT: D --> He is a credit to mutants everywhere   
AA: equius   
AA: no   
TA: ...facepalmiing really hard here.   
CT: D --> Certainly if they were more like him they w001d not be systematically culled as they currently are   
CC: I am embarrassed for the bot)( of us. 38(   
CT: D --> It is a pity that the culling drones will not make e%ceptions but steps must be taken for the preservation of our race as a whole   
CA: actually tav that aint a bad idea   
CA: this assholes a lot like equius hell be all hot an bothered aboat it   
AT: uHHH,   
CT: D --> Uh   
CA: also if he asks about it   
CA: youre my kismesis okay   
AT: i’D RATHER   
AT: uHHHH,,,,   
AA: eridan just what in the hell have you been telling that guy

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is idle --

CC: ...   
TA: yeah, man, what the hell.   
TA: al2o, send a copy.   
AT: i DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR KISMESIS,,,   
CA: nah its a make believve kismesis thingy    
CA: he asked me aboat the wwhole lot a you so i made up some shit   
GA: I Dont Like The Thought Of That   
CA: if youre uncomfortable hittin on the threshie just make shit up its knot like he knowws jack shit about you   
GC: TH4T WORK3D FOR YOU BUT 1 DOUBT 1TLL WORK FOR H1M    
AT: oH NO, iT IS A THRESHECUTIONER,   
AT: wHAT IF HE DOES,   
CA: just gotta make sure you dont contradict my covver   
AT: wHAT IF HE KNOWS i CAN’T WALK,,,,   
CA: vvris is my fake moirail howws THAT for a fuckin lie   
CA: nah he doesnt knoww ship trust me   
AT: oH NO, i’M JUST tOO SCARED,,,   
AT: wHAT IF HE KNEW ALL ALONG,,,   
AT: wHAT IF i LIE AND HE GETS ME,,,,   
GC: T4VROS C4LM DOWN   
CC: Deep breat)(s!   
GC: YOU 4BSOLUT3LY MUST NOT T3LL H1M TH3 TRUTH   
GC: DO NOT 4LLOW YOURS3LF TO 1MPLY 1N 4NY W4Y TH4T YOU R3QU1R3 4SS1ST4NC3 MOV1NG 4ROUND!   
GC: L3T M3 G1V3 YOU 4 CR4SH COURS3 1N M1SD1R3CT1ON   
GC: 1F YOUR3 4FR41D H3 M1GHT KNOW WH3R3 YOU 4R3 4LR34DY M4K3 SUR3 NOT TO T3LL HIM 4NYTH1NG TH4T CONFL1CTS W1TH TH3 TRUTH   
GC: BUT 4T TH3 S4M3 T1M3 YOU SHOULD NOT CONF1RM 4NYTH1NG H3 M1GHT KNOW!   
AT: uH,,,,,,   
GC: B3 V4GU3 4ND L3T H1M F1LL 1N TH3 BL4NKS   
GC: H1S OWN M1ND W1LL COM3 UP W1TH 4 L13 FOR YOU!   
AT: i JUST,,,   
AT: hAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO THAT,,,,   
CA: look man do you evven know wwhere you live   
CA: like if i ask you for your address right noww cod you evven tell me   
AT: uM, nO,   
AT: nOT THE OFFICIAL LOCATION DENOMINATION,    
AT: wITH THE OFFICIAL NUMBERS,,,   
CA: wwell there you havve it   
CA: tell the fucker you dont know your location or howwevver you landdwwellers call it   
CA: cuz you nevver get sent shit so it wwas nevver a thing you had ta know   
GC: 1 GU3SS TH4TS GOOD FOR A ST4RT   
CA: you cant fuck that up if its the truth   
GA: Yes That Is Reasonable Be Apologetic And Sound Helpful Without Being It   
TA: liike a bureaucrat.   
AT: oKAY,    
AT: i AM,    
AT: DOING THAT,   
GC: YOU KNOW    
GC: T4VROS T4LK1NG TO TH1S 4SSHOL3 H4S F1LL3D M3 W1TH 4N 3NT1R3LY N3W S3NS3 OF URG3NCY   
GC: P4RT OF M3 W4NTS US TO G4TH3R 1N 4 S1NGL3 S4F3 PL4C3 4S4P   
GC: TH3 OTH3R P4RT TH1NKS TH1S 1S TH3 B3ST W4Y TO G3T US 4LL K1LL3D TOG3TH3R   
GC: 4ND 1 H4V3 NO 1D34 WH1CH P4RT 1S R1GHT   
AA: i know 0_0   
AA: safety in numbers versus quackbeasts in a row   
CC: I would love to get toget)(er wit)( everyone!   
CC: I don’t t)(ink t)(at’ll be possible any time soon, t)(oug)(. 38(   
AA: yeah that won’t happen for a while   
GA: Tavros At Least Shouldnt Be Left Alone   
GA: He Is At Too Great A Physical Disadvantage   
AA: no i agree

\-- adiosToreador [AT] is idle --

CA: aww hell that cant be good   
AA: okay im worried now 0_0   
AA: oh grrr someones trolling me   
CA: dont answwer the bad person    
AA: wait this is tavros alt account   
CA: you knoww im runnin outta juice here extended trollin is tiring   
CA: brb shakin this dumbass off   
GC: WHY 1S T4VROS 1N H1S 4LT   
AA: he says he dropped his husktop and the plugin isnt working in his handheld device   
TA: see, ii told you that mobile port wa2 iimportant.   
TA: but you were liike noooooo, 2ollux, 2top your dumb codiing and come run around liike a headle22 cluckbea2t along wiith u2.   
TA: good thiing iit’2 nearly fiinii2hed.

\-- centaursTesticle [CT] is no longer idle --

GA: Did You Get More Towels   
CT: D --> Silence   
GC: Y34H 1T SUR3 B3C4M3 S1L3NT 1N H3R3 4LL OF 4 SUDD3N   
GC: D1D W3 S3R1OUSLY RUN OUT OF STUFF TO T4LK 4BOUT?   
CC: I guess so! Our one source of info on t)(e going ons at Karkat’s has disappeared on us 38(   
CC: I never t)(oug)(t I’d say t)(is but I wis)( Vriska would just come back already.   
CA: wwell that wwas fun

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] is sending file "wwhy yes i am CG an also a blitherin idiot.txt" --

CA: thank me later

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] is sending file "ChatBlock_for_Trolliian_2_0_1_6.exe" --

TA: now wiith handheld 2upport.   
TA: thank me later.   
AA: good!   
AA: im adding his alt account to the chat now

\-- pupaPan1111 [PP] has joined "EQ ii2 a 2weaty douchebag" --

PP: oH NO GUYS,,,,   
PP: i AM REALLY SCARED,,,   
PP: i MAY HAVE SOUNDED UNNATURAL,,,,   
GC: WH4T D1D YOU T3LL H1M T4VROS?   
PP: iN FACT i THINK IT WAS OBVIOUS THAT i WAS BEING UNTRUTHFUL,   
PP: aND i DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY TO HIM,,,,   
GA: Tavros I Thought It Had Been Decided You Were Going To Say Something That Was Actually True Insofar As You Dont Know The Official Denominations Of Your Location   
PP: yES, bUT,   
PP: iN RETROSPECT i THINK i SOUNDED UNNATURALLY AWKWARD,   
PP: i THINK IF i WERE THE PERSON ON THE OTHER COMPUTER, i WOULD BE IMMEDIATELY SUSPICIOUS,   
GC: BUT YOUR3 4LW4YS 4WKW4RD   
PP: uHHH,,,   
GC: 4NYW4Y YOU C4N 31TH3R FORG3T TH1S GUY 4ND L3T H1M H4NG OR COM3 UP W1TH MOR3 HOOFB34STSH1T TO S4Y   
PP: oH, nO,    
PP: hE JUST MESSAGED ME AGAIN,,,,   
GC: 1 R3CCOM3ND TH3 FORM3R    
GC: OH FOR TH3 LOV3 OF   
GA: I Thought You Had Dropped Your Husktop   
PP: i’M ON THE FLOOR AS WELL,   
PP: aS IN,   
PP: i TRIED TO PICK IT BACK UP, bEFORE i RECEIVED THE MOBILE TROLLIAN THINGY,   
PP: aND FELL OFF MY SEAT,   
AA: ...   
CA: just tell him you livve in the fuckin middle a nowwhere fields thats not a lie   
PP: oKAY,   
TA: not iin tho2e word2, though.   
PP: uHHH,,,,   
CA: make sure he knowws youre perfectly capable a usin your feet   
CA: like throww in a comment aboat your frolickin around i made sure he kneww you wwere a frolicky kinda guy alwways runnin around evvery fuckin day   
GC: R3M3MB3R   
GC: B3 UNH3LPFUL WH1L3 G1V1NG TH3 1MPR3SS1ON OF B31NG H3LPFUL!   
GA: Give Some Extremely Generic Reference Points   
GA: If You Mention Cliffs Do Not Describe What They Look Like   
GA: Maybe Add Some Moving Reference Points For Extra Befuddlement   
CC: Yes! Like a bunch of catfish or some ot)(er animal that glubs around near your )(ive!   
CC: T)(ere are so many out t)(ere, it doesn’t mean ANYFIN!   
AA: dont talk too much   
AA: be succinct and there will be less chances of giving something away   
CT: D --> Do not neglect to mention hoofbeasts   
TA: why iin the frozen fuckfiire hell2 would he even want two briing up hoofbea2t2?   
CT: D --> Hoofbeasts are a noble race deserving of every troll’s contemplation   
CT: D --> The intruder will certainly regard him positively if he displays respect for our glorious fauna   
TA: that’2 the bigge2t piile of hoofbea2t2hiit ii’ve ever heard, what are you even on.   
GC: 3QU1US 1M ST4RT1NG TO B3L13V3 YOU DONT QU1T3 UND3RST4ND TH3 S3R1OUSN3SS OF OUR CURR3NT C1RCUMST4NC3S   
AA: maybe we should start by reminding you that you live right by vriska   
AA: who gleefully gave herself away   
AA: remember?   
CT: D --> I am perfectly aware of the circumstances and the consequences of her recklessness   
CT: D --> I am also perfectly capable of defending myself and hiding my presence in the event of a hive invasion   
GC: W3LL T4VROS 1S C4P4BL3 OF NO SUCH TH1NG WH4T W1TH B31NG STUCK 1N 4 D4MN WH33L3D D3V1C3   
CT: D --> I also happen to have several fighting robots in my possession   
CT: D --> Uh   
TA: he’2 al2o kind of lackiing iin robot2, iif you don’t know.   
CT: D --> I   
PP: oH NO,   
CT: D --> Guess that is correct   
PP: gUYS,   
PP: hE FOUND ME,,,   
AA: what   
GC: HOW?   
TA: aw FUCK.   
GA: Tavros Please Do Not Tell Me Your Hive Is Being Invaded At This Very Moment   
PP: nO,   
PP: nOT YET, tHANKFULLY,   
PP: bUT HE FOUND OUT THE NAME OF THE CLIFF WHERE i LIVE,   
PP: wHEN i MENTIONED THE HERD OF BLUE HOOFBEASTS THAT PASSES IN VIEW OF MY HIVE,   
GC: ...   
PP: tO BATHE IN THE SEA,   
CT: D --> Oh   
CT: D --> The Legendary Water-Frolicking B100 Hoofbeasts   
CT: D --> How happy you must be to live in view of such a magnificent and rare specimen   
AA: equius   
CC: --Equius, you utterly glubbing DUMBASS!   
CT: D --> They are STRONG, yet for mysterious reasons they do not attack members of their own species despite sharing a territory   
TA: EQ, what the 2weet barfiing FUCK.   
CT: D --> Instead, they nurture and fiercely defend their young for the entirety of their lifespan   
PP: yES, tHEY HAVE VERY GENTLE THOUGHTS,    
CT: D --> They are only found in a very narrow strip of land   
PP: bUT i’M FINDING IT HARD TO THINK KINDLY OF THEM RIGHT NOW,   
CT: D --> Along which they migrate through the seasons   
GA: Equius Are You Aware That Your Stupid Suggestion Is What Gave Tavros Away   
CT: D --> Uh   
GC: Y3S UH   
GC: 1F BY UH YOU M34N    
GC: SORRY T4VROS 1 4M 4 SW34TY 1D1OT   
CA: oh man sorry guys   
CA: but im laughin really fuckin hard right noww wwhat is this evven   
CC: T)(is is no laug)(ing matter!   
TA: QUIICK, TELL THII2 GUY HE2 GOT IIT WRONG.   
CA: seariously i stop payin attention for twwo fuckin seconds and evverythin goes to FUCK   
PP: uH,   
PP: i SAID i HAD THINGS TO DO,   
PP: aND SIGNED OUT...   
AA: you really should have done that ten minutes ago   
PP: yES, iN HINDSIGHT,    
PP: i REALLY SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT FIRST,,,   
CA: just drop evverythin and run the fuck away   
CA: aww ship i mean wwheel awway i guess sorry   
GC: W41T H3 C4NT JUST WH33L OUT L1K3 TH4T   
GC: TH3Y KNOW WH3R3 TO F1ND H1M NOW   
GC: TH3R3’S TOO GR34T 4 CH4NC3 TH3YLL RUN 1NTO H1M ON TH3 W4Y TO H1S H1VE   
TA: 2hiit, that’2 riight.   
TA: he’2 dii2abled, they’ll cull hiim on the 2pot whether they know he’2 theiir target or not.   
AA: way to go equius   
CT: D --> I’ll have you know   
CT: D --> That I am not responsible for the suggestions he followed   
CT: D --> How was I to know his residence was so close to such a rare wonder of nature   
CC: T)(e problem is t)(at you tossed in a completely unnecessary suggestion w)(ile )(e was in no position to pick and c)(oose!   
CC: A life or deat)( situation is no place to indulge in your weird )(oofbeast obsession.   
CC: )(onestly, I )(ad you pegged as a more discerning troll.   
CC: I am severely disappointed in you. 38(   
CT: D --> I   
CT: D --> Apologize   
CT: D --> In hindsight it has come to my attention that I may not have taken the matter of the brownb100d’s safety as seriously as circumstances required   
CT: D --> I may have been e%eedingly self-indulgent    
TA: and 2elf-centered.   
CT: D --> Yes   
CT: D --> Wait   
AA: yes   
GC: Y3S   
CC: Yes. 38(   
GA: Yes   
CC: Seariously, you’ve been acting like -Eridan two seasons ago!   
CA: yes   
CA: wwait   
AA: yes   
GA: Yes   
CT: D --> That   
CA: aww cmon that burns   
GC: Y3S   
TA: ye2.   
CT: D --> Is e%eedingly harsh   
CA: comparin me to the hoofbeast wweirdo that isnt fair   
CT: D --> No   
CA: i wwas nevver a total fuckin asshole like him   
CT: D --> I correct myself   
CT: D --> My behavior has been ine%cusable   
CC: Remember your stupid glubbing doomsday devices?   
CC: And )(ow you were going to kill ALL landdwellers?   
CA: aww cmon   
CT: D --> It is unbefitting of a troll of my station to behave in such a flippant manner   
CC: And )(ow you brus)(ed me off w)(enever I tried to get you to talk about w)(at you were R--E--ELY t)(inking!?   
CA: swweet glubbin cod im sorry aboat the genocide thing   
GC: WOW OK4Y TH1S SUR3 1S 1N4PPROPR14T3   
CT: D --> If the brownb100d will manifest his thoughts on the matter   
CA: yeah it was fuckin stupid cant a guy be a silly 6 swweeps old little kid anymore wwont i evver livve that down   
AA: 0_0   
TA: oh fuck no ii’m NOT reading thii2 2hiit, you’re NOT haviing a fiight iin public and iit’2 all a fiigment of my 2iick iimagiinatiion.   
CT: D --> I may be willing to   
CT: D --> Humble   
CT: D --> Myself   
CC: You still don’t tell me nearly enoug)(!   
CT: D --> As an apology   
CC: Don’t you ever t)(ink I don’t notice, Mr. Ampora!   
GA: Maybe You Two Should Take This To A Private Window   
CA: already on it sheesh   
CA: sorry aboat that guys   
GC: 1M JUST GO1NG TO S1T H3R3 4ND SH4K3 MY H34D SLOWLY   
AA: if anybody else feels the need to discuss their quadrant issues in this space   
AA: please dont   
TA: aw 2hiit, ii had thi2 huge fuckiing paragraph wiith all my ii22ue2 paiin2takiingly de2criibed for general 2crutiiniity and you forced me two delete iit, AA.   
TA: how can you liive wiith your2elf.   
AA: oh shoosh   
PP: oKAY,   
GA: Why Are You Not Fleeing Yet Tavros   
PP: i AM BACK ON MY DEVICE, aND MY HUSKTOP IS SAFELY CAPTCHALOGUED,   
PP: aS WELL AS SEVERAL CHANGES OF CLOTHES, pERISHABLE AND NON-PERISHABLE EDIBLES,   
PP: lUSUS SNACKS, aN ILLUMINATION DEVICE, mY fLARP RULE BOOKS,   
PP: tWO dAGGERLANCES AND ONE lANCE,   
PP: aND A BAG STRAPPED TO MY DEVICE FOR tINKERBULL,   
PP: aND NOW,   
PP: i AM ABOUT TO GO PLAY THE MOST EXTREME ROLE-PLAYING GAME OF MY LIFE,   
PP: wISH ME LUCK,   
AA: wait tavros!   
GC: 1M 1MPR3SS3D!   
AA: you really shouldnt be outside where you can be seen   
AA: these threshecutioners will spot you from miles away on the plains!   
AA: if you stand your ground for a couple hours i can pick you up and fly you to my place!   
PP: nO,   
AA: 0_0   
GC: >:O   
PP: dESPITE MY POOR SHOWING, iN MY PREVIOUS CONVERSATION,   
PP: i AM NOT COMPLETELY STUPID,   
PP: cOMING TO MY HIVE WILL ALSO PUT YOU IN DANGER IF YOU ARE SEEN,   
PP: wHICH YOU WILL CERTAINLY BE, iF YOU’RE FLYING AROUND HIGH ON THE CLEAR SKY OVER THE PLAINS,   
GC: OK4Y NOW 1 4M 1MPR3SS3D FOR R34L   
PP: aND IT’LL BE UNNECESSARY DANGER,   
PP: wHEN THERE IS A PERFECTLY SERVICEABLE TUNNEL NOT TOO FAR FROM MY HIVE,   
PP: wHICH SEEMS TO LEAD TO YOUR HIVE’S GENERAL DIRECTION }:)   
GA: Tavros You Sound Uncharacteristically Confident   
PP: oH NO,   
PP: i AM VERY MUCH TERRIFIED,   
PP: bUT IT HELPS TO THINK OF IT AS fLARPING,   
PP: sO LONG AS IT’S NOT WITH vRISKA, i CAN HANDLE IT,   
TA: hehe, ii wii2h 2he was around two read that.   
PP: i DON’T,   
CT: D --> Lowb100d   
GC: 1S TH4T WHY YOUR3 T4K1NG TH3 FL4RP RUL3BOOKS 4LONG?   
PP: tHOSE ARE FOR THROWING,   
TA: haha, WOW.   
CT: D --> Uh   
GC: WOO!   
AA: 0_0   
AA: tavros i must join the choir of the impressed   
AA: but before that   
AA: does this convenient cave happen to have drawings on its walls?   
PP: aCTUALLY, iT DOES,   
PP: sOME REALLY OLD AND FADED SCRIBBLES, iF i REMEMBER WELL,   
AA: good!   
AA: follow the drawings   
AA: youll be safe even if you dont find my hive   
PP: uH,   
PP: tHAT SOUNDS STRANGE, bUT i’LL TAKE YOUR WORD FOR IT,   
CT: D --> Lowb100d, I must   
CT: D --> Apologize   
CT: D --> For having a%cidentally induced you into revealing your address   
PP: yOUR APOLOGY IS UNEXPECTED, bUT ACCEPTED,   
CT: D --> I must also express my wonderment at your spirit   
CT: D --> For a lowb100d, you have displayed remarkable STRENGTH of will   
PP: tHANKS, i GUESS,   
PP: yOU’RE NOT TOO BAD EITHER, fOR A WEIRD HOOFBEAST PERVERT,   
CT: D --> Uh   
AA: 0U0   
TA: BROFII2T. NOW.   
GA: Very Well Put Tavros   
PP: nOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, i’M ABOUT TO GO TO THE CAVE,   
GC: 3QU1US YOU H4D TH4T ON3 COM1NG 4ND YOU KNOW 1T   
PP: i DON’T THINK THE SIGNAL WILL WORK INSIDE IT,   
PP: sO THIS IS GOODBYE,   
PP: fOR NOW,   
PP: hOPEFULLY,   
GC: BY3 MR CHOCOL4T3 FUDG3 1 S33 YOU NOW 1N 4N 3NTIR3LY N3W L1GHT

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] has renamed "EQ ii2 a 2weaty douchebag" to "TV ii2 BO22" --

TA: lowblood2 repre2ent.    
PP: hEHE, yES }:)  
AA: we will meet again in time im sure 0u0  
CA: asnd you haev no idea hoqw cojnfuased i am glkub  
GA: Please Accept My Temporary Goodbye As Well  
CA: oh shiy wwrogn wondow  
CA: *wwundoww  
GA: And Good Luck  
CA: SHIT tavvs goi nalraedy  
CA: i better see you agian you fuckin peice a shit  
CA: fef says goodbey too  
CA: *tyupos ahoy  
PP: tHANKS, eVERYONE,  
PP: gOODBYE,  
PP: tEMPORARILY, }:)

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] has joined "TV ii2 BO22" --

\-- adiosToreador [AT] has left "TV ii2 BO22" --


	13. > Be Tavros

You are Tavros Nitram and you are surrounded by the Faceless.

Every young troll has heard the whispers about the Faceless — whispers, because they’re not to be spoken of out loud. They shouldn’t exist, and acknowledging their existence is giving them power; yet forewarning must be given, for the Faceless are like the encroaching morning mist, seeping into respectable hiveblocks and absorbing upstanding young trolls into their folds like an ever-growing swarm of zombies. 

They have no symbols, because they were never meant to be; instead they shamble around in nondescript grayness, empty and identity-less. Their blood is also anonymous gray, and touching a drop of it will turn your arteries that same ashy non-color, infecting you with their nothingness. They are cunning and can pose as a perfectly normal and healthy troll, but that is no more than an empty skin they wear: for they are the Faceless, and their words are as empty as their true faces.

Or at least that was the general gist of the many creepytrollpasta tales Aradia used to send you before you finally let her know they made you unable to sleep at day. She called them interesting lies people made up for fun, and you call them terrifying lies people should never come up with — and yet you are surrounded by them, right here, right now.

They’re... well, they’ve grown in the telling, you admit to yourself. They all have faces, which are twisted and clenched in varying degrees at the sight of you. Or perhaps at the sight of Karkat’s blood-drenched back as he lies swooned on your knees. Its color is particularly bright and garish under the ghostly white light bathing the two of you, as a point of fact. 

But mostly you’re worried about their concealing glasses and beaten-up grey cloaks, which look utterly mundane and terrifying in their realness. The Faceless may be made-up, but the existence of hidden communities of adult trolls preying on the young has long been confirmed and warned against by much more reliable sources than creepytrollpasta.co.al. 

They step back, forming a sort of corridor you are clearly expected to wheel down. The two sentries you ran into stand at your back, but they make no attempt to push you in; seeing no other option, you wheel yourself through the revealed entrance and down the aisle of eerie heavy breaths and muttered lilting words, wringing hands and the ghosts of hovering touches. 

Unfortunately your hands are shaking too hard for you to wheel for long and you roll to a halt, wrapping your shivering arms around your burden at a complete loss for what to do. You’re acutely aware of the hitching sobs you can’t quite disguise.

You just wheeled straight into one of the hidden nests of lingering traitors, the cowards and the desperate who would not heed the call of the Condesce and instead remained behind — an infection, a pustule upon the homeworld. And though you are a coward and desperate and most likely a traitor as well, you can’t help feeling alone and terrified and very, very much outnumbered. 

Then the colorless mass around you shifts and ripples in a choir of rustles, and suddenly you are sitting helpless in front of an impossibly immense adult.

He towers over you, a massive pillar of shadow topped by horns long enough to betray many sweeps of life. Nothing you have ever so much as pictured in your mind’s eye has felt so solidly powerful, not even the very cliffs you built your hive upon: this troll is a thick wall of muscles barely concealed by the coarsely woven fabric he’s shrouded with, and he exudes raw power with each hissing breath.

On pure instinct you toss a daggerlance at the giant and huddle protectively around Karkat, sobbing openly and shamefully into his hair — but you’re startled out of it when the warm body in your arms suddenly draws a shuddering gasp; the hand resting on your chest presses down just a little bit, and you hear him mumble something into your shirt.

“Tavs,” is what it sounds like, a strained hiss through weak lips. “Tavrrss.”

You draw back enough to stare at Karkat’s half-smushed face against your chest, holding your breath and devoting every scrap of attention to him in this moment. It’ll probably be the last thing he says and the last thing you hear — and you feel as though the very walls around you are holding their breath as well, leaning over your head in a silence so expectant it’s oppressive, thirsty and desperate for those last, hopeless words.

“ _Safe_ ,” he whispers, and his expression is full of wry understanding. 

Once again you feel his hand grow momentarily heavier on your chest, just barely enough to be felt, and it suddenly occurs to you that it’s meant to be a reassuring pat. 

You burst into renewed tears. You can’t help it. 

You squint through watery brown at the colorless trolls around you and recognize your own pain in each of those crumpled, trembling faces. You blink up at the towering figure over your head — but he’s kneeling down, your daggerlance held between the fingertips of a huge square hand and offered handle-first as if it had been gently plucked out of the air.

“ _You’re not going to hurt him?_ ” you blubber through dripping snot, trying and failing to stop clutching Karkat to your chest. 

He sets your daggerlance down. He’s still taller than you when down on one knee, but from this diminished distance his face resolves into more than mere shadows: his skin looks somewhat papery, the grim set of his lips surrounded by lines deeper than his expression would justify. His dark glasses seem to glow at the edges, and a web of circuit lines shimmer under his hood at every slight movement; from the shadows framing his face falls a long waterfall of hair, straight and luscious. 

He hunches a little bit closer to you, and you can tell he’s about to talk just by the tensing of muscles under his skin.

“He is our treasure,” he says, his voice booming deep and thunderous and soothing, and you start crying all over again, your fingers squeezing Karkat’s shoulder in a gesture which is probably more comforting to you than to him.

He reaches out with his immense hands and you shakily open yours, watching as he lifts Karkat as easily as if he were a tiny grub in the hands of a grown jadeblood. Your shirt is soaked in his blood; when you attempt to wipe your tears you find that your hands are also stained in bright, unreal red, sticky and crumbly where it’s drying on you. 

From past the adult’s huge cloak approaches a group in light gray, sheets of lusus-white fabric spread in their arms. They wrap Karkat as if he were a piece of priceless crockery, the tall troll adjusting his grip with painful care; once finished they turn to the wall of sobbing shrouds, and it parts like they had it rehearsed.

But the group has barely taken a step when Karkat suddenly spasms, pushing one arm out of its white cocoon and nearly shoving his fingers up his caretaker’s nose; he mumbles something loud and unintelligible in a sudden burst, and you’d swear he sounded just as annoyed as his usual self. The tall troll’s expression is almost concealed by the angle of his hood, but you guess at a smile from the way his cheekbone moves, and he turns to glance at you, clear amusement in his face...

Which goes slightly slack as he stares, really stares, as if he’s only just noticed you. But it’s only for a couple of seconds; soon he’s bowing his head deeply, and you bow yours back because it’s only polite.

He finally leaves, with Karkat bundled in his arms and followed by the light-shrouded figures. You watch as hands reach hesitantly from the aisle of cloaks, tracing the air or touching the trail of white fabric like bereft wigglers, and here and there in the crowd rise impromptu choirs of mournful, rhythmic mumbling, sometimes at odds with each other. 

But as the hulking figure disappears into a wall, a new silence takes over. 

You look around, trying to find this new source of bewilderment. Did someone else arrive after you? The entrance appears to be sealed, and in fact it looks like it was never even there... 

For a moment you forget what you were looking around for in the first place, arrested by surroundings you only just became aware of. You’re sitting under a large dome, an obviously troll-made structure which still shows remains of what may have been its original shape — here, a craggy patch of wall surrounded by sanded rock; there, a set of stalactites touching the floor in a delicate fall, flanked by support columns. Stone and metal stand together in a strange mix of technology and asceticism. The illumination comes from globes resting on intricately twisted iron, and though their silvery light was unsettling at first, you do feel it brings up the few colors present in this austere environment and gives them an unreal, dreamy tinge. 

There are scribbles and drawings nearly everywhere, both faded and fresh. You ask Tinkerbull to take a closer look for you; he flutters about while you hitch a ride in his senses, pitter-pattering along the walls and up to the ceiling. The information you get back isn’t quite complete, but you’re reasonably sure you’re looking at some rather outdated mode of Alternian — the kind which is used for extra flavor in the margins of FLARP guidebooks. Every now and then you come across a metal plate inserted where the original patch of stone apparently fell off, the ancient letters and drawings pressed into the brushed surface to allow the original text to flow uninterrupted.

Karkat’s symbol figures rather prominently in these old writings. You would be surprised if you hadn’t already taken notice of the bright red and white tapestries hanging from the walls, each with his symbol figuring even more prominently in them. You still have no idea what’s going on, but you’re starting to think that maybe these people like Karkat _a lot_.

You turn to a nearby group to ask how they know him, only to find that their gaping faces are intensely focused on you.

You hunch into your shoulders. What if they’re upset at you? All facts taken in consideration, Karkat wouldn’t have gotten wounded if it weren’t for your inability to protect yourself, not to mention how you’d simply assumed he had the battle well in hand. In retrospect it wasn’t all that surprising that he’d faltered despite his apparent prowess; you felt pretty terrified yourself when your lance connected, even though it hit precisely where you were aiming for. You had never killed another troll before, and clearly neither had he. 

The memory of the threshecutioner’s body slumped boneless like a plush doll, arms and legs askew and propped up by your lance like a mockery of a person... it was even more viscerally terrifying than the assailant had been while living. You shut your eyes and shudder in your seat.

When you open them again, you’re surrounded by kneeling Faceless, and they all look varying degrees of expectant and upset.

“Um,” you trail off, aware that you probably owe these people an apology — and Karkat too, for that matter — but unsure how to put it in words. Someone’s breath hitches; you really shouldn’t make them wait any longer. “I’m, I’m sorry...”

As it always happens when you find yourself in the spotlight, your mouth goes dry and your tongue suddenly feels enormous inside it. You swallow, mostly to buy yourself some more time to brace your thoughts; you fiddle with your fingers only to remember they’re sticky with Karkat’s blood, and it’s with a sudden numbness in your insides that you decaptchalogue one of your shirts to dry your hands with.

“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, and bow your head until your chin touches your chest because you don’t know how else to let them know how much you mean it. “Karkat only got hurt because he was trying to find a path for me, because my wheeled device can’t traverse certain kinds of terrain, you know, and he kept taking us back and forth through the tunnels and wouldn’t throw me past the cracks...” You twist your shirt in your hands as you rub the flaking blood off them; your blood-pusher is fluttering inside your thoracic cavity like the shiver of nervous wings, and it’s making you feel light-headed. 

You’re staring intently at the bony knees appended to you when something white enters your field of view. _But Tinkerbull is hovering right over my head_ , you think at first, then you blink and lean back a little and the white shape turns out to be a folded towel on a tray held by a troll with light-gray edges on his cloak.

The troll is kneeling by your wheeled device and the tray is in reach of your hand; you can only assume he is offering the towel to you. If he weren’t staring at the floor, you could maybe gauge what you were expected to do from his expressions. 

Oh no, it only just occurred you that the cloaks make it really hard to figure out whether you’re speaking to a boy or a girl. What if you offend someone?

It’s with a shaky hand that you pick the towel — and it’s so very _fluffy_ , it’s like sinking your hand into a woolbeast and staining it with your friend’s blood _oh this poor towel_  — and try to track down your previous train of thought.

“Um,” you say, squeezing the towel in your slightly less sticky hands, “So maybe what I meant to say is... Karkat could have arrived here safely, but instead he chose to stick with me, perhaps out of a sense of obligation, which I get the feeling he has perhaps a little too much of, concerning matters that he shouldn’t feel responsible for, such as the crippled state of my legs, and... I’m sorry,” you squeeze out through your constricting throat. “I can see that he is very important to you. I’m sorry...”

You are startled out of your apology by the sudden awareness of something touching your device — a very subtle vibration of the frame, a slight shift of weight. A glance is all you need to verify that there’s a hood kind of hunched down over your foot, and there’s a set of long, _adult_  horns much too close to your legs.

You panic for a moment: Is he eating your foot? Are you going to be drawn and quartered by a group of crazed squatters? But then the hood comes back up and the face under it is not dripping your blood from its chin nor clutching a piece of you in its mouth. In fact it looks kind of wibbly, even behind glasses. You belatedly notice the troll is holding your sandaled foot in his hands, and though you can’t feel the touch it actually looks rather gentle.

“By the Grace of _Blood_ ,” someone whispers shakily, and suddenly you’re surrounded by broken snatches of sentences.

“The Twicehatched—”

“He returns—”

“Wind-child—”

“—has guided him to us! He has—”

“—descendant—”

“The Son of Sorrow has found—”

“—mightiest follower! But—”

“ _Sacrilege!_ ”

You freeze on your chair and glance around with uneasy eyes, afraid that moving your neck will call even more attention to the fact that you’re freaking out really, really hard right now. You wish you could pull your foot back and hightail it out of this crazy den, because these weird, insane people are screaming to the roof, mumbling to the ground, pulling their hoods down, raising their arms up, and overall making an extremely confusing racket for no reason you can see. You assumed they were talking about Karkat at first, but now it appears they’re upset about five different people who apparently brought other people and then committed sacrilege, whatever that even means.

Little by little the noise subsides, though, settling into a low hum of frantic mumbling. From the tapestry of bowed bodies and clutched hoods sometimes rises a couple of heads, and they stare at you open-mouthed for a few seconds before going back to their background hum of gibberish.

Except for the guy who had your foot. He’s still holding your foot, and he’s staring up at you rather intensely.

“The Wind-herder has come to us at last!” he suddenly tells you, voice shaky and thick with emotion.

You’re about to say you’re glad for him when the rest of the room suddenly goes “ _Ooooooaaaaaaaaaah_ ” in an eerie, frightening unison, raising their hands all at once before bowing down to the floor.

“But... his wings have been _cruelly ripped out_ ,” he chokes out, his lower lip trembling. 

Your shoulders tense and rise as you gasp. “Is he okay?” you blurt out — and then you feel a little silly, because this poor herder obviously isn’t okay, what with having had his wings ripped out. Cruelly, even!

The troll outright chokes; his expression looks both pained and famished as he shakily curls back down over your foot, almost as if he’s trying really hard not to melt, and failing. 

You wish you could feel what he was doing to your foot.

“Excuse me,” says a voice you don’t recognize. There’s a sudden shuffling of capes around you, looking much like the motion of the sea on a cloudy night; your foot is set delicately back onto its footrest before the one who’d been holding it joins the bustle. Everyone is still kneeling down in your general direction, but somehow a path has emerged between you and another long-horned troll on the other side of the room. 

He comes right up to you before kneeling as well, bowing down to the floor and then rising back up to look at you with a severe, solemn face. You never thought you’d be something other than alarmed by being stared at so directly, but out of everyone currently surrounding you this guy is the least disturbing.

“The Grace of Blood requests the presence of the Brethren of Beasts,” he says.

It takes you a few seconds to get that he’s expecting a reaction from you.

“Is...” you hesitate, “is that me?”

He just nods, still very seriously.

“Ho—” your voice catches, and you’re suddenly _really freaked out_ by this whole thing, “How did you know I’m able to commune with creatures? I mean,” you add, suddenly aware that you may be making tall assumptions, “if that’s what you meant by brethren of beasts, because there’s a chance you actually mean something else, though I’m not sure how it would relate to me in that case...? But yeah... I guess...” 

Your voice dies in your throat as the troll’s face remains stony, and you glance back down at the towel in your hands. You can’t keep up with that stare much longer. 

You gather your wits with a deep sigh before looking back to the base of the adult’s horn. “You mean Karkat wants to see me?” you finally ask.

He simply nods.

“Um...” You hesitate, and then nod back. “Lead the way...?” you say, and can’t help hating the uncertain way it came out. But regardless of your uncertain voice and your obvious weaknesses the troll rises, grey cloak swirling and fluttering around him as he turns and steps briskly down the path that has opened. You follow, and as you leave the block behind a voice rises sudden and loud behind you:

_Hear, listener, of the twice-born,  
Rider on the wind, the dragon-hearted,  
His deeds and praises now I sing..._




The voice grows muted as you’re led into a corridor, its walls busy with letters and drawings; some are simple and faded, others detailed and fresh, some in the blood colors of daylight beasts, others in colors so many, varied and bright you can’t help shuddering at the thought of all the wigglers that must have been culled for them. 

The corridor opens into an even wider room, this one much more obviously _built_  than the atrium; the walls are sanded-smooth, the horizontal layers of script and illustration almost geometrically set up. There are deep red tapestries and carpets with drawings and patterns and pillows scattered and piled willy-nilly all over the place, grey, black, and white, and there are candles and hanging orbs and stone basins draped with white. To one side is a wide stage of sorts, on which there is a chair and a completely incongruous curtain, too short to actually cover more than half a person; to the other, a handful of steps lead to a dais covered in red and gold carpet and topped with a mess of red shimmery fabric and velvet pillows. To either side of it there’s a trickle of water cascading from cracks in the stone, trailing down into a deep groove that surrounds the room and ducks under each entrance; behind it hangs, tall and imposing, a black rectangle of fabric with Karkat’s symbol in near-glowing silver. An upsetting number of people are crying and kneeling in front of the empty dais.

Your guide waits patiently as you take all this in, and then ducks into an entrance right by the one you came in from.

The next path is somewhat more complicated to follow — you’re at first in a hallway as smooth as the wide block you left, but then you take a turn into a dusty, raw one, and then another turn into a line of antsy and wibbly trolls in cloaks. The muted singing you left behind sounds closer, or perhaps it has grown louder; it definitely sounds like a lot more people are singing along. 

_Hail Twiceborn, Windchild  
Dance upon the clouds, soul of fire,  
Send us glory from above!_




There is a bit of almost comedic confusion before the trolls on the corridor, too, part ways to allow you in, and eventually you reach a roomy, cleaner block furnished in shades of grey and white. You see many entrances other than the ones you came in from; each of them is guarded by a troll in light grey, or in grey with light hems. They don’t look at all menacing, but the lines of anxious faces you see beyond each archway don’t seem about to trample anyone. 

Behind you, someone is being chided for faking illness in order to get into the room. These people may possibly be stark raving mad.

After wheeling past a few rows of seats, apparently made of... metal pipes and cloth? You’re finally led into a room bustling with muted, somber activity.

_When the Thief freedom forbade  
Love decried and happiness clave  
And our Savior to fire sent;_




There’s a... platformy... _tray_ thingie in the center of the room, raised on spindly metal legs, and it’s draped with the red-stained white sheets Karkat had been wrapped in. Karkat is also on it, shirtless and propped up half-sitting as a team of light-cloaks spray misty water on his back and dab at his cut; the huge troll who greeted you is also here, hunched awkwardly over him like a giant carrionbeast and holding an almost comically small cup in his square fingers.

“Breathe,” he says in his deep booming voice, and Karkat does just that, taking several shallow, shivery breaths before the cup is tipped against his lips and he drinks as if he’d never tasted water before. Droplets trickle down to spatter onto the stained sheets, and you follow their trail through the red streaks on his torso; he coughs harsh and wet, his whole body twitching as his ribs expand and contract violently, and it suddenly, finally hits you that Karkat is a Mutant and that you should care but still don’t.

_A Defender was hatched, lance in hand  
From the first he worked the land  
With nothing left to grow; _




“Drink,” says the tall troll when Karkat’s coughing fit dies down; he tips a different cup onto Karkat’s lips, and he obediently gulps its contents. Greenish translucent liquid trickles from the corners of his lips, smelling strongly of crushed leaves. 

Maybe you should be surprised, or horrified, or at least scandalized, but instead you breathe a tired sigh and settle back onto your device. The water they’re spraying on Karkat’s cut has an undefinably minty, cool smell, unnatural but not altogether unpleasant; it puts you in mind of the sea breeze when the moons are high.

“Breathe,” says the troll, as another tips a jar of water into the glass he’s holding. Karkat takes several belaboured sighs. You don’t like the abnormal rigidity of his neck and shoulders.

You have no idea why you’re in this room. There’s literally nothing you can do to help these people; you have no idea what they’re doing, and it’s not like you can maneuver your device around them to be of any help whatsoever in cleaning the wound, limited as your knowledge on the matter is. Your guide said Karkat had called for you, but he doesn’t look like he’s even aware of what’s going on around him right now. And the tall troll seems to have giving him water well in hand.

Then Karkat opens his eyes to glance at you sideways and you nearly backflip out of your wheeled device, invisible legs and all.

He grins. You attempt to grin back, but are not quite sure you are successful.

_Walked his road into the state  
Killed the tyrant on his way  
To correct these wrongs;_




“Hey,” he rasps out, before being afflicted by a much more violent coughing fit.

Everyone sort of freezes with their hands hovering in the air, including you. The tall troll puts the glass down to prop Karkat into a seating position, and he dry-hacks in the most painful looking way — stiff muscles half-bunched with each flinch, his shoulders seizing up in aborted hitches, blood spurting out in clotted gobs from the open wound. You wonder if the poison was a paralytic.

Tall troll pulls a weird mask with a tube on it from the other side of the tray, and Karkat appears to be as baffled by it as you are, trying to dodge its spray of mist even while coughing. He soon relents, though, allowing the mask to be strapped to his face and gulping down heavily; the smell of fallen droplets settling on the sheets remind you somewhat of fresh dewy wind, but with a chemical twinge to it. 

As the panic settles down somewhat, one troll holds Karkat’s wrist with a look of intense concentration, while the others go back to washing off the renewed blood. Karkat gropes blindly at his side; out of an undefined impulse you grab that uncertain hand and allow him to flimsily squeeze your fingers when the adults spray something a lot stronger and sharper smelling on his wound. But then, when his back is finally mostly clean and the contrast between open skin and red flesh is upsettingly clear, someone approaches with a needle and string and actually starts _sewing the wound shut_. Like it’s just _cloth_.

Somehow that’s the tipping point of all the horrible things you’ve seen so far, and you squeeze your eyes shut and try to swallow back the acid that’s climbing up your nutrition chute.

_Hail Cloudrider, Moonkisser  
Dance upon the clouds, soul of fire,  
Gambler's bane, mighty fighter!_




“Hey,” Karkat says again, and you crack an eye open to look at him. His eyes are squinting in what you at first assume is pain, but there’s a sardonic little smile visible through the misty, near transparent breathing mask. You squeeze his hand. He seems to find it funny, because his lower eyelids twitch up a little.

“Sorry,” he says, his smile fading as he glances around himself. “I got you roped into this—” he gestures weakly with his other hand, his shoulders still stuck in unnatural stiffness. “...ridiculous... shit... thingie.”

Your eyes start to burn. “No,” you choke out, “I just... it was my fault, I gave myself away and—”

“ _No_ ,” he says, sudden and loud, and you’re startled right out of your tears. “No, we’re _not_ — ugh,” he flinches suddenly, and the troll sewing his back freezes in place; after a few quick breaths, though, he goes right back to speaking. “We’re _not_ doing the. The thing. Stupid, stupid thing where I blame myself and you blame yourself and,” his breath quickens alarmingly for a while before he gets it back under control, “and then we argue about who’s more to blame for what. It’s stupid. Stupid dumb is what it is. I was stupid and you were stupid and stupidity got us both in a pickle. _Fuck_.”

The sewing troll tugs gently at the string attached to Karkat’s back (you flinch and avert your eyes) before snipping it off with a very small pair of scissors. Tape is brought and then carefully applied over the artificially closed wound; once again, the tall troll raises Karkat on his enormous hands, this time to allow the others to replace the stained sheets with clean ones. One side of the tray is gently raised, and soon Karkat is reclining on it, deflating with a shaky exhale. 

_Traveled far, and fast, and strong  
At her castle last to land  
On new wings of bronze_




He looks... thinner, somehow, gaunt. The rings under his eyes are darker and deeper than ever, and his lips are nearly as grey as his skin. Even the effort of keeping his eyelids raised seems to be taking its toll on him. 

“I’m not apologizing for that,” he rasps out. “I just... brought you right here. In their reach. Their view...” His voice trails into mumbling, and he blinks slow and languid at you. 

You trip over your own tongue in your hurry to reassure him. “T-they don’t _seem_ dangerous! I mean— well, they _do_ , but they don’t _feel_ dangerous...? They’re all very... very...”

You have no idea. They’re all very _something_ , overwhelmingly so, but what that something is you can’t tell.

_She his matesprit, new-fast forged  
Calmed a time the righteous flame  
Yet could not halt fate_




“They mean well,” he murmurs, “but they really have no sense... of the ridiculous... of scale.” He smiles softly. “They could really... stand to be more discreet, I guess? Though they’ve repressed their feelings for so long... maybe it’s unfair to wish they were less spastic...” he trails off, eyes closing. You’re starting to think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly adds, “don’t let them creep you out.”

It... might be a little too late for that, you’re about to say, but the wheezy little laugh that escapes him lets you know that yes, he is aware of the ridiculousness of what he’d just said.

“I mean, don’t...” he hesitates, “don’t buy into it. Their... thing. Their weird worshipful thing. They’ll try to mold you. They don’t mean to. But... they’re naive... sad wigglers... don’t be an ass. And by that I guess I mean be an ass. Don’t let them walk over you with their sad broken souls, push back as hard as you can and force them to stand on their own.” A breath. “...Metaphorically,” he adds.

“...I’m confused,” you confess.

_For her crimes she had to die  
Passing on in blaze of light  
Love's lance through her breast_




He open his eyes again, and they’re scarily sharp for someone who still doesn’t seem quite safe from death yet.

“Haven’t you been given the _talk_ yet?” he says, so softly you have to lean over his mask and strain your ears to catch the tail end of the sentence. 

You shake your head.

“You hear the singing?” he asks, lifting one finger very slightly in what he may have meant to be a generally encompassing gesture. 

You nod. 

And he raises one of his arms — the stiff, weak arms he hadn’t been able to move a second ago — to grab and pull at his breathing mask with almost indecently casual speed. The face underneath it is just as drained as it had been before, and the lips pressed into a line are just as grey, but for a moment you simply can’t believe that he’s anything more than mildly indisposed.

“That’s your Ancestor they’re singing about,” he says, his voice as loud and annoyed as ever; and then his fingers slacken and his head falls back and the mask slaps crooked back onto his face, unable to hide the twisted grimace of pain he makes as his whole body starts to seize at once in dry, hacking coughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all owe a big thank you to Kaossparrow, Starcrossed Sky and Cygnahime for helping me with the Summoner Song. And by helping I mean they did most of the job. Kaos alone owns way over half of it.


	14. > Tavros: be very confused

The block bursts into activity, and you're reminded that you're surrounded by cloaked trolls when they rush to the tray like a flock of very upset wingbeasts. You wheel back out of their way; you're completely out of your element here. You may also be completely gobsmacked, but you're trying not to think _too_ hard about why right now. Instead you concentrate on scritching Tinkerbull between his horns, just to occupy your nervous hands.

The sound of breaking glass startles you, and you find that the tall troll who carried Karkat is also slowly retreating from the general bustle. He looks as imposing as ever, but there's something upset about him — something about the hand that's still sort of raised, the fingers that are still pinching crushed crockery and dripping tea.

He turns to you. “It appears we've both hit the extent of our usefulness,” he says, gravely. “Perhaps we should clear the precinct.” 

He stands by like a quiet mountain while you maneuver your wheeled device, and pushes a button as soon as you turn back the way you came in from. An outlined rectangle in the stone slides gently aside, and you're reminded of the nondescript patch of rock wall that originally concealed this whole crazy place. 

“If possible,” he says, once you're both back in the room with the funny tube chairs, “I would like to hold a private conversation with you.”

“Um, sure,” you say, half-shrugging. Out of all the caped people you've talked to so far he seems to be the least off-putting.

“Would you mind following me, then?” he asks.

“Ah, no,” you start, surprised, and then can't think of anything to follow with, making the sentence hang awkwardly unfinished in the air. You honestly weren't expecting that as a question at all; you were thinking about following him anyway, conversation or no, simply because you have no idea where else to go other than the eerie room with the singing people... and you'd rather avoid them. The sheer novelty of being politely requested such minor things is also throwing you off. 

You follow him into what appears to be a mix of secret passages and shortcuts: opening walls, crossing arcs, wheeling down corridors empty and bustling. At one point a young adult walks by leading a line of children roughly half your age, and they all wave and cheer at the moving brick wall currently serving as your guide; one or two run right up to him to hang from his cape, squealing in delight, before their minder patiently calls their attention back. They stroll by you with their hands on each other's shoulders, skipping and singing — singing loud and happy and fearless, together in a single echoing voice, and their lilting unison is unlike anything you ever heard, imagined or even thought possible.

_Roly-poly holly rolls  
Down to where the river flows  
Where the singing wingbeast goes  
When he wants to caw-caw..._




It's the most beautiful, uplifting bit of nonsense you've ever heard. You can but weakly return their cheerful waves, so overwhelmed with warm, delicate feelings that your eyes spontaneously well up with tears. 

And then you do a double-take, because one of the kids looked like a sea-dweller. They're already moving out of your sight, though, turning into a side-passage while singing about barkbeasts and their bow-wows. 

You turn back to the immense troll only to catch a soft little smile on his lips. 

He merely nods to you before resuming the trip, leading you to a round block which turns out to be a platform which then descends and opens into some sort of workshop. He walks up to a table covered in funny instruments and flicks several switches before turning to you; suddenly you remember you followed him for a conversation.

“I hope you are not offended if I were to work while we talk,” he says, gravely. “There are tests I must run with haste; however, I would also like to hear the tale of how Karkat came to be wounded, and perhaps also of what drove him to lead you here.”

You flinch; you _knew_ these people were upset with you.

“I'm sorry,” you say for perhaps the hundredth time today, but you haven't even formulated the rest of your apology when shadow falls on you and an enormous hand touches your armrest. You follow the limb with your eyes to find that the troll is looming over you like a gigantic tree.

“The apology is mine to make,” he rumbles out. “I did not mean to imply that I held you responsible in any way whatsoever.”

He straightens his back (you almost expect to hear creaking) and turns to his work table, decaptchaloguing _oh sweet god he just decaptchalogued Karkat's bloody sheets._

“I am not sure how much you're aware of regarding Karkat's circumstances, or the place you are currently in,” he goes on, ripping strips of bloodied cloth and inserting them in vials and beakers and between little glass rectangles. “However, I assume you have noticed the fact that he does not fit the... hemospectrum as you know it.”

You nod, eyes glued on him as he hooks vials and beakers to machines, fills them with colorful liquids, inserts the glass rectangles into the slit on a huge, blinky metal box. 

“Allow me, then, to impart some of what I know of the matter,” he says, pressing buttons and fiddling with sliders before sitting down on another weird metal tube chair. 

He sits stiffly in silence for several seconds before it suddenly hits you that he's— hesitating. _Nervous_.

“Um,” you say, and the hulking giant of a troll sitting on that dainty contraption actually _starts_.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “A-apologies,” he says, “it has just occurred to me that I have yet to introduce myself.”

“Ah,” you gasp, flinching as well. “Um, I haven't either, I guess. I'm Tavros,” you lower your head.

He lowers his in return, a much more impressive movement when adding his glossy curtains of hair to the equation. “You may call me the Big Elder,” he says.

You really don't know what to say to that.

  


“Anyway,” he coughs into a huge fist, “You may have taken notice of... the strange behavior of... most of those who currently dwell in this hideout, when it comes to matters involving your friend.”

You nod.

“...And also yourself.”

You nod a little faster.

“My apologies.”

You nod a third time, and then feel awkward about it.

“As Karkat has already told you, the cause of their behavior is the deep historical importance of your Ancestors.”

“But,” you can't help interrupting him, “But... I don't have an ancestor. I mean,” you fiddle with fingers that still feels somewhat blood-crusted, “Any one ancestor would be impossible... to determine...?”

You feel progressively more unsure of your own words as the Big Elder shakes his head.

“There was once a troll with your Symbol,” he says, his voice as grave and solemn as one narrating a dramatic movie. “And your horns, your face, your shade of blood. His deeds were so great, the Condesce had his name struck from the annals of history and bade all adults abandon the homeworld, so that no uprising such as the one he led could ever be repeated. His legend lives on, distorted by the passing of time and the recounting throughout the generations— but I am not speaking of dubious legends. I was there. _I knew him._ ”

Your chin drops. Not that much, though, and not that hard. It just kind of... droops loosely open. Because what you've just been told is so enormous it's shot past awesome-incredible and wrapped back around to just plain-hard-to-believe-incredible.

It's just... it's too much like the setting introduction for a rulebook-standard FLARP campaign. _Your Ancestor was Overwhelmingly Awesome! Go find his Stuff and be Awesome too._

“He was sympathetic to our cause,” the Big Elder continues, “though he believed our methods would not bring results as immediate as he desired. Thus he attempted to destabilize the Empire through force of arms, and his attempt was... a resounding success.” His bulky shoulders rise and fall in a soft sigh. “He may not have counted on the long-term consequences of his actions, though they were ultimately beneficial to us. Regardlessly, he is seen as a hero and as a friend to our cause and our people; he did not take our Vows, but our scholars have come to face his choice not to as a sacrifice he made for the sake of our movement.”

He raises his head so that his dark square glasses are staring straight at you. “He is known as our Ally and Defender, a Guardian sent to protect us and draw attention from us in our darkest hour — sent by the spirit of our Founder and, lately, also by the Greater Forces that watch upon our universe, whichever they may be.”

You scratch the spot between Tinkerbull's eyes entirely on automatic. This is unreal. You're pretty sure this guy isn't lying, and you're also pretty sure that the stuff he's saying is highly relevant to you, but the whole thing is skittering from your mind like it's overfull. 

“...I can't deal with this,” you mumble to your lap, eyes staring past Tinkerbull and head buried between your shoulders.

“Karkat frequently can't either,” he says, kindly, “yet he's managed admirably since a very young age. But he would know your predicament well; that is why I believe he would not have brought you here unless you were both facing a truly dire situation. Even if you were not descended from one of the most prominent figures in our history, you would still have been recognized as the target of his personal regard, and thus would have been subjected to unwelcome scrutiny.”

You're so overwhelmed, you really can't do much more than intensely examine your own knees. What do you say? How do you react? You wish there was a script for you to follow. You're pretty sure it's offensive to just sit here with a blank face but you're so, so _numb_.

“What made him decide that you would be safer here?” he asks, his cavernously low voice somehow bracing and soothing on your nerves.

“It, I, well, it was when—” you swallow thickly, “I got a sudden message, from his trollian account, and, because of several embarrassing shenanigans, which I would rather not recount, I was several minutes late in responding, and so I hurriedly typed back before looking at the message he sent, which upon reading turned out to not sound like him at all, and in fact to not sound at all like any person I knew, and which was asking me to send him my location, in order to theoretically send me a vaguely described something...”

You retell to the best of your abilities the steps which resulted in your presence in this adult hideout: the chat plugin populated by Karkat's contact list (which you are careful not to name or otherwise give away), your botched attempt at misdirection, your decision to explore the tunnels in search of your friend rather than wait for rescue, your friend's suggestion to follow the cave inscriptions, your meeting with Karkat, the long trek back and forth in search of a path your chair could traverse, the sudden run-in with a threshecutioner, Karkat's battle and his wounding, your one contribution to the fight, his slow breakdown as he pushed you onwards until he couldn't anymore and you became the one to carry him instead.

Sometimes during your telling the Big Elder would stand up and check the machines, or walk around the table attending to several beeping sources at once; he nodded at times, and you were unsure whether he was reacting to your tale or to whichever results he was finding. Once or twice he brought out a very sleek-looking computing pad, tapping at the screen with a metal pen and practiced agility. You trail off when you reach the part where the two sentries spotted you; he turns his eerily glowing glasses your way and nods in grave acknowledgement, then silently sets a chunk of bloodied cloth and some vials into a metal box marked with a fractal.

You're barely starting to feel awkward when everything inside the box suddenly blinks out of existence with a pop in your ears and an actinic afterburn in your retinas. 

“Thank you,” he says, apparently unfazed by the machine's behavior. “Not only you, but your online acquaintances as well. It is good to be reminded that one does not need to know of the Sufferer in order to act in accordance with His words.” And then his tone of voice shifts to something almost businesslike: “I have taken the liberty of contacting some of our trusted allies among the threshecutioner corps; they will support your endangered friends by whichever means are available to them. And in the meantime... I believe you require an ablution and a change of clothing.”

“Yes,” you say, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I... would like that very much.”

“It has been arranged,” he says, beckoning you with a gesture before turning around with an impressive and apparently unintended swirl of cloth. “I am afraid they are preparing a full Ceremonial Purification Ablution, though. Do you have any issue with being cleaned in the presence of four Elders, ten Attendants and six Guardians?” His lips quirk in amusement at your horrified face. “I might be able to talk them down to a Convention Ablution, but any lesser would be pushing the proverbial envelope. After all,” his voice softens, “the blood we are washing off you also requires respect.”

You finger the dried stain on your shirt, self-consciously. There are still flaky traces clinging to your arms, dropping in crusts on Tinkerbull's white fur with each movement you make. Contact with the air has burned the bright red into a deep rust; it looks almost like Aradia was the one to bleed on you.

Big Elder leads you out of the workshop and back through some of the passages you already took, his square glasses projecting a flickering light on his worn face. Other gray-clad trolls stare openly as you pass by. You are still too poleaxed to know how to react, but your mind settles on unease: these people expected a valiant hero, not... you. 

That certainly explains their reaction to your arrival. You're not sure what a sacrilege is, but if it's anywhere close to disappointment you're probably it.

In the end you just push those thoughts aside and concentrate on examining the ablution block you were guided to. It's a spacious, echoey chamber with smooth creamy-yellow walls and curved ceiling, filled with the soothing murmur of running water and draped with translucent curtains wall to wall; in front of the curtains stand four people — two very serious looking guys, not as tall as Big Elder but still somewhat imposing with the heavily ornate sickle and lance they each hold; and also a very... shrivelled one, weirdly stooped under many layers of cloth, with a fidgety child by their side that seems to be somewhere between 4 and 5 sweeps of age.

  


The two armed guys raise their noses and if you were a more cynical troll you'd call their expressions a fair attempt at expressing a profound state of constipation; you are not a cynical troll, however, and instead you just think they seem to be trying really hard to look like they're guarding. From what, you don't know. Peepers, maybe. The Big Elder pushes you gently forward, and the two of them bow simultaneously at the waist as if on cue. 

The swaddled bundle of wrinkles steps forward with much swaying of cloth, and stretches its mouth wide open in a yellow, chipped smile that carves an even deeper map on its crumpled face; the child by its side seems entirely unaffected by the grisly display, holding a saggy-skinned hand like it's nothing to be surprised about. It stoops down even further for a couple of seconds, and the kid stares at you distractedly before starting with a squeak and following suit with a more graceful bow.

“This is Elder Plucker,” the Big Elder says, “and young Havera, who wishes to follow in her footsteps. They will assist you in your ablutions. Speedy Knot and Color Wash will forestall any interruptions.”

Plucker is not a word that inspires much confidence, but you have little choice when the two weirdly named guards pull the white curtains aside to reveal a water-filled stone basin sunk halfway into the ground. Beyond it, another curtain.

Elder Plucker shuffles her way into the enclosed cubicle, her head swaying under the apparent weight of her horns. The curtains fall back into place once you wheel yourself in; they're still going _shoosh shoosh_ against each other when Havera lets go of the Elder's hand and starts attacking your sandals without any warning.

“Uh—” you want to complain, but instead you freeze.

Havera just raises her hands in a shrug, a sandal in each of them. “You _can't_ take an ablution with your clothes on,” she says. “Them's the breaks.” And then she sets your sandals aside and starts pulling your socks off.

Elder Plucker just gives a wheezy little laugh, slowly shuffling around to face away from you. Her layers upon layers of gray wrappings sway hypnotically back and forth with each feeble movement; she's not even turned all the way around when Havera is done neatly balling up your socks and reaches for your waist clasp without any hesitation whatsoever.

You flinch with a mix of embarrassment and terror while Tinkerbull valiantly curls up against your belt — and then it hits you that this kid simply could not cause you the kind of harm you're unconsciously trying to ward off, and neither could the elder (who as far as you can determine can barely walk?).

Havera just raises an eyebrow at you, then steps back with arms akimbo and a very serious face.

“Look,” she says, “ _nobody_ likes a bath, but if you don't take one you'll be stinky all up everybody's nose and you can't sit on the Altar smelling like fish either because that's _hells_ of disrespectful.”

“No, I understand,” you assure her, settling Tinkerbull into the crook of your arm while holding back a nervous giggle. You're amused despite yourself. “I, personally, would say that I like to take ablutions, but it's startling to be undressed for them by someone else, and, I really wasn't braced for the possibility.”

“Oh, I see,” she nods, her little mouth making a perfect circle. And then she adds, hesitantly: “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“No, that's definitely not a thing that happened,” you give her a little smile.

“Ah, that's better,” she says, straightening her shoulders and grinning at you. “Okay,” she claps her hands, all businesslike, “let's move on and take your pants off already!”

If you were a troll with a dirtier mind you would probably be disturbed and flustered, but being yourself the double meaning of those innocent words do not hit you until much later on; instead of being shocked, you just raise a hand in a calming gesture.

“I can do this faster by unequipping my clothes,” you tell her, captchaloguing your shirt and pants — and then feeling very drafty and embarrassed.

The girl gasps. “You have a _syla-dessy_!” and then she looks a little dubious. “But we needed those.”

“Um, those what?” you ask, momentarily discombobulated.

“The clothes, child!” laughs the shrivelled creature, who's suddenly _right there_ (wasn't she supposed to stay turned around?). 

“Yes,” explains the girl, still completely unfazed by the way her companion pokes thoughtfully at your legs, “it has the magic blood on them.”

You wordlessly offer your captchalogue cards to Elder Plucker — averting your eyes from the way they shiver in your fingers — who slowly and rather theatrically sets them on a cloth-covered basin sitting against the wall.

Then she turns to the curtains. “Grandy, you still there?” she calls out, and Big Elder strolls in, cloak flaring dramatically in his trail. (You thought he had left?) “I'm going to need some help here, I ain't a strapping young gal no more,” she mumbles as he approaches; there's a wide grin on her face, though, so you assume she's just joking about her obvious frailty.

He bows his head to her with a rueful-looking grin of his own, and then turns to you. “I will move you from the chair and into the trap if you require assistance,” he says.

You study the setup in front of you. The stone trap is sunk halfway into the floor, lower than your knees; its borders are thick and wide, crudely carved into many linked Karkat signs. It's not anything you haven't dealt with on your own, but not without a great deal of undignified crawling about, and tiredness is starting to catch up to you. You nod just a little bit to the Big Elder, feeling like a burden and halfway hoping he won't notice this display of weakness.

Instead, he picks you up just as carefully as he did Karkat ages ago: one huge square hand under your unfeeling knees, the other rough and calloused at your back. Tinkerbull hovers around his horns, watchful as he circles the trap, and he settles you down into the basin facing the fountain of bubbling water carved into the wall opposite. 

It's hot but not enough to scald; the warmth seeps into your muscles, and you have to make an effort not to flop your heavy head onto the water-polished stone behind it. A globe glows above the water source, shimmery as if its own light were also liquid; it covers the walls and curtains in shivery-rippling reflections, and with the non-stop trickle of water on stone the whole atmosphere is unexpectedly soothing.

Your sleepyfloaty sense of comfort sort of sinks when the Big Elder grabs, or rather pinches, your wheeled device by the handle and raises it above his head to examine the wheels with a quizzical tilt of his really long horns.

“With your permission,” he says, as grave as ever, “I would like to examine your apparatus more closely, and perhaps make some adjustments.”

“Um,” you mumble somewhat, “I don't really mind, so long as it's not broken, and I also get to have it back in a timely manner, I guess...”

The device is captchalogued; he nods with a swish of hair before sort of striding, sort of sliding his way out through the curtains, his cloak flaring like he's the spookiest friendly ghost.

You turn your attention to the other two. Elder Plucker is shuffling somewhere behind your head, and though Tinkerbull says she's just spreading your bloody clothes on a big plate thingie you're sort of glad not to be looking; meanwhile Havera picks through the little bottles in a small carved box with an affected look of intense professionalism.

She soon has all the little bottles lined up to her personal preferences, apparently, because she carefully sets the box down before turning to you with a solemnly raised nose.

“Don't worry about your wheeled transport,” she says. “The Grand Elder is very responsible with people's things. Did your legs get hurt on the surface?”

You suspect she's been gearing up for that question for a while.

“Yes,” you say, nodding with a solemnity that mirrors hers.

“I see,” she nods thoughtfully, and the two of you nod back and forth for a few seconds. “I heard the surface is a very dangerous place.”

“Oh, it _is_.”

“Yes, right?” She sets a strangely-shaped iron plateau on the trap's border — deep, round on the bottom but flaring out in what seems to be a shell motif. “Nobody is ever happy on the surface, because of the _hee-moh-spect_.”

You sink a little bit in the water, blow some bubbles right under the surface. Hee-moh-spect. _Hee-moh-spect_. Your first impulse was to repeat the word the right way, just to gently let her know how it's pronounced; you don't know exactly what gave you pause. 

She's just nodding to herself again, focused on the plateau; she's dripping measures of the colorful little bottles she'd been arranging into it, while Elder Plucker tips an enormous long-necked jug. The mix is thick and pearly and smells very pleasant. 

The little girl draws breath, and Elder Plucker grins and raises an eyebrow over her dark lenses at you. Tinkerbull is resting on her head. It's terrifying. 

“I learned all about the _hee-moh-spect_ ,” she says, enunciating the mangled word very carefully. 

You tip your head back to get your mouth out of the water. “Really?”

“Yeeees,” she says, stirring the mix with a delicately wrought spoon. “It's a thing where the Thief Queen thinks a color is prettier than the other colors and so people who are that color get more presents, and if you're not they beat you up.”

You just gape.

“And it's just so sad,” she goes on. “Because if you're not a pretty color, everyone will say it's okay to hurt you, and if you are you can't do anything about it, and then the bad people just come to you and say it's supposed to be funny, and that you're stupid if you don't think it is, and if you say it's bad they'll get angry at you and beat you up too.”

She taps the spoon on the border of the plateau; it rings a musical note. 

“Our Teaching Sister looked so scared when she was telling us about it. She was holding these papers and they were all shaking in her hand, and I could tell she was not looking at anyone because her neck was really still. And when we asked her questions she started crying, and then we had to all give her a hug. It was a mess!” she threw her hands up emphatically. “I'm _never_ going up.”

You stare at your bony-thin legs as they float underwater. To this little girl, the hemospectrum is _foreign_. She's completely out of touch with reality.

“Did they beat you up because of color?” she asks.

You hesitate. Yes or no, it's too... simplistic, unfair even. You shift awkwardly in the water, and notice that it's gone still; the fountain opposite you has stopped running, and Elder Plucker is curved over the trap, turning bottles and sprinkling powder with pinched, flapbeast-like fingers. The water remains warm, but minty coolness spreads in the air. Your mind feels a little clearer after that. These people sure do know their smells.

“It's complicated,” you mumble. “She was— er—” you didn't mean to let slip the perpetrator was female, but oh well, “A friend... or at least I always thought of her as a friend, and, I'd like to believe that she thought of me as a friend as well... but while we were playing together one day she pushed me off a cliff, though it wasn't quite pushing as in with her hands, even though the end result was the same, which was me on the bottom of a ravine unable to feel my legs—” 

Elder Plucker tugs at one of your arms, and you allow her to pull it out of the water. She dips the tips of her fingers into the mixture plateau and slathers your arm; it appears to be a very soft soap.

“So your friend betrayed you?” Havera asks, looking only politely curious. “Because she didn't like your color?”

“It's complicated, like I said...” you trail off, mostly because Elder Plucker went on to spread soap on your shoulders and started to squeeze them in a way that felt really surprisingly good; you almost dunk your head nose-first into the water before you notice you're nodding off. 

Havera giggles, hiding her teeth behind a hand in a gesture that looks almost coy. “Sorry, I must be tiring you,” she says. It sounds like she's quoting from a book.

“No,” you try to blink sleepiness off your eyes; Elder Plucker helpfully moves on to your other arm, perhaps sensing you want a clearer mind. “I never tried to put this whole thing in words, I suppose, not even to myself, and now I kind of feel like it, if you don't mind listening...”

“I'm all ears,” she says, raising her nose and primly crossing her hands on the trap border.

“Um,” you blank for a moment before finding a loose thread to start detangling your thoughts from, “I suppose it could be said that color played a part, in that debacle, though I try not to take it personally, since all facts taken into consideration, pushing people off cliffs was everything she ever knew, and I have reasons to believe that the end result was not the one she'd been hoping for, even though it's madness to expect anything else from a fall that high... but, yes, I guess you could say her color is closer to the prettier one than mine, so she gets a lot of leeway for the silly, and scary, things she does...” you breathe a little shakily, then gasp when Elder Plucker pulls you up by the armpits and adjusts your posture so that your back is out of the water. She doesn't laugh or comment, just slathers your back; you try not to let it distract you. “Erm, anyway, before all this went down, it seemed to me and to some of my friends that she was making a fair attempt at not letting her color get in the way of our fun, and, though I haven't talked to her since then, I have learned from trustworthy sources that she has displayed as clear signs of genuine regret as one of her disposition and character are willing to display, whether publicly or privately...”

“So you're scared of her and don't want to see her again?” Havera asks, so engrossed she's forgotten her proper pose and is now sort of flopped on the trap's edge.

You are momentarily distracted from answering when the Elder pulls her layers of sleeves up, displaying two extremely wrinkled and skeletal arms all the way to the shoulder; she dumps a slab into the trap and reaches into the water to pick you up and sit you on it, turned sideways so your legs are on the border, your feet by Havera's elbow. You slide down until your chin is underwater, and have to grasp at the trap's edges with both arms so you don't sink any further.

The Elder soaps both legs, massages the feet (not that you can feel it) and carefully washes between each bony toe. It's been a while since you last took a good long look at your own two feet, and what you see isn't very heartening: your muscles are even more weirdly shrunk into themselves than you remembered them being, smooth and dry with misuse, and even your toe claws look atrophied, flat and translucent-thin.

You watch Havera's eyes turn somber as she takes in the state of your limbs, her previous cheer diminished as she hands Elder Plucker a tray of decorated claw-grooming tools. You haven't been able to groom your toe claws for a long time, and it shows; the Elder lingers at each toe, rubbing creams, scraping dead skin, picking at the underside of each claw, filing the chitin down into a roundish nub. Just as well for your socks, you figure, though they'd already been too weak to even pull strands.

By the time she washes the soap and creams off your feet with a shell-shaped ladle, they are barely recognizable, in a good way, sort of. They look _healthy_ , even the filled-down claws. When she sets them back into the water — more gently than when she pulled them out — it feels weird that you can't feel the difference in temperature, like you were momentarily thrown back to those first few seasons after the incident.

Thinking back on that time reminds you of all the complicated thoughts and feelings you were dealing with, the reactions of everyone you knew, the decisions you made which you still don't know if were correct but which you fail to regret nonetheless. You remember Aradia and Sollux showing up with the device for you, remember Karkat bringing you all those mysterious pain-diminishing herbs and teas (now that you think about it this place explains a lot about that) with surprising frequency (yeah, the tunnels would explain that one too). You remember hearing, through the haze of near-constant pain, about some sort of confrontation between Terezi and Vriska, the results of which you never quite learned about; Gamzee sending you reams of messages you could make heads nor tails of; the friends of your friends who just sort of stepped in and then stuck around after the dust settled — blues and violets who you became somehow able to call acquaintances, and who you sometimes felt very close to despite having never met them in person or talked to at length. 

You remember, in a very hazy and detached sort of way, bits and pieces of the last conversation you had with Vriska, sitting on your new-old device and reeling from the ghostly ache that was all you could identify from the waist down for seasons on end.

“I guess it wasn't so much about fear... though, it wasn't like I wasn't feeling any fear at all...” your fingers twitch involuntarily; the Elder has moved on to grooming your left hand, and the pressing of tools around your claws is uncomfortable and distracting. “When you're dealing with someone so high above you on the hemospectrum, there's always a shadow hanging over you, you're always kind of bracing for something bad, I suppose... but I guess my strongest feelings at the time were this, this really deep and bitter _disappointment_ , not even quite betrayal, just... that I really expected her to not do such a thing, because, I really thought of her as a better person than that, and, if there was betrayal, it was of my expectations more than anything...”

Elder Plucker lets go of your hand and you look at the result, still somewhat immersed in your thoughts, while she circles around to the other side of the trap. Your hand feels tender and slightly achy, the calluses and thick skin around your claws softened and scraped out, the claws themselves filed... not into nubs, but into roundish tips. They look delicate and pitifully harmless — beautiful, even. 

You've never once felt the need to claw anyone or anything for your own defense, and if you were ever in a position to do so you'd probably go for a daggerlance instead — but you still feel oddly defenseless and bereaved. It's a silly feeling; claws are meaningless nowadays except as a personal statement, and you've seen people on trollnet posting tutorials on how to groom yours into looking wild and ungroomed, so what if yours are looking a little underused? You dunk that hand back in the water and try to push the matter out of your mind.

“So,” you go on, hesitantly, “I'm not really as scared of her as I used to be, and, I'm not that angry anymore either... mostly I'm annoyed that, every time she sends me a message, she's apologizing for the wrong thing, in the wrong way, and then gets angry when I don't answer her back... and then she tries to mind-control me into messaging her back, which is just sad, because it just means she's holding a conversation with herself, which she must have eventually figured out, because she stopped trying after a while now that I think about it. And I actually... I miss her, kind of, and the fun we used to have, and I think she also misses me, from the volume of messages she keeps sending, but when all of this went down I made the decision, which I intend to stand by, that I wouldn't be her friend again until she knew what she really did wrong, and what she really should apologize for, because if not then she'll really never learn why we were sad, you know? And... I really hope she'll learn soon, because we're all supposed to stand together... we have a lot of stuff to do... so many irons...”

Your nose and forehead plop softly into the water, and you raise your head in hasty surprise; your horns haven't felt this heavy in a long time. 

“Um, anyway,” you mumble uncertainly, head swaying as Elder Plucker attacks your hair with more pearly creams, “that's the story of how my legs stopped working, and it's kind of complicated but mostly about color, I guess—” you break off with a sputter as a sud trickles down your face.

The sud is followed by water rivulets; Elder Plucker seems to be upending one ladle after the other over your head. She lightly taps your drenched hair, and you obediently dunk into the water to get the rest of the soap off. When you sit back up, Havera is holding the soap bowl up to you. 

You blink at it; Havera ducks her head and giggles.

“Are you going to wash your _bee-woo_ or do you want us to?” she asks, and from the context you can only assume she's referring to your genitals. You hastily scoop up some soap, and sink in your shoulders until Elder Plucker forcibly turns Havera around and does the same, cackling wheezily all the time. 

You slather yourself underwater and wince every time your movements make the water slosh. You don't really feel much of anything down there (which makes cleaning a lot easier, actually) but the embarrassment is just part and parcel of cleaning yourself in the presence of strangers. Tinkerbull hovers over the water, somewhat in the direction of their viewing angle, and you guess it kind of helps. You squint through the water, pale-murky with soap, but things seem to be in order down there: you cleaned where cleaning was required and your mating parts didn't spontaneously decide to pop out during it (which sometimes happens and which would have been very inappropriate in the circumstances). 

“I'm... finished,” you mumble out lamely, feeling your ears go hot — and jump near halfway out the trap when a sudden _clang_ echoes through the stone. The water pulls at you from both sides; you can see long narrow drains open at the junction between the trap walls and bottom. On the wall opposite, the fountain starts trickling down again. Havera sets a small plateau with a burning incense stick on the trap border, and it mixes with the minty scent into something warm and comfortable. These people _really_ know their smells.

Elder Plucker turns over an entire jug of water on the back of your neck, washing off the few remaining suds that the draining water left clinging to your skin. Havera walks out through the curtains, and there are some indistinct talking noises before she awkwardly toddles back with a wooden stool almost as tall as she is, heavy and carved, soft on the seat, rough at the legs.

It's heavily styled with your symbol — or, whoops, your ancestor's symbol, most probably; it definitely looks a votive seat of some sort. It smells like it was freshly cut, and once again you're impressed with their proficiency with scents, though why they'd bother to make it look and smell brand-new, you can't imagine. 

A fluffy white towel is draped over your shoulders, and you barely get enough time to register it's there before you're lifted from the trap and settled on the bench by _wait you thought Elder Plucker was too old to carry your weight_ — but she taps the base of her back with a fist afterwards and you feel a little bad for forcing her to overstretch herself. 

Havera once again goes for your feet without warning or invitation, but it barely startles you now. Instead, you get to work on drying your arms. This towel is so soft. And... your skin, too, it's all... _soft_. You get distracted just fingering the back of your hand. It feels like the peel of a fruit that's very soft and pleasant to the touch, you can't think which though. You don't think you ever got to eat the one, but if you ever get to hold it it'll probably feel the way your skin feels right now. 

You're dabbing at your chest with a balled up towel tip, wondering if the difference is visually noticeable or merely tactile, when someone once again strides through the curtains. You hastily cover yourself.

This guy is new. Another elder, you guess. He looks really snotty; you immediately don't like him all that much. 

“The Grand Elder has not finished his studying of your locomotion apparatus,” he says, and wow, even his voice is snotty. “We hope this replacement will conform to your needs for the time being.”

He decaptchalogues _the sleekest-looking wheeled device you've ever seen_. It's perfectly, symmetrically bent metal, softly curved and polished into mirrors; the seat and back are each a strip of thick dark hide, shimmering under the light. The wheels are gleaming new. This thing has _never been used_ , how come they just have one lying around—

“I apologize for this bare-bones standard short-term locomotion apparatus model,” he says, his nostrils flaring in disdain of the device as he pokes it with a finger. _It glides smoothly forward without a single creak._ “I was given short notice, and this was shamefully the only truly presentable one of all we had available at the nursing block. I've brought up the need for polish a number of time, but does anybody listen? Of course not.” He sniffs. “A more appropriate one will be arranged as soon as we can.”

“It's _beautiful_ ,” you wheeze, then hide your face in the towel because you're crying. They actually _have_ more than one lying around, it seems, unoccupied if you heard him right, apparently just sitting there in case someone— someone gets their legs hurt, in Havera's words, no wonder she seemed so unaffected by your inability to walk, sometimes people just _get hurt_ and go around in wheeled devices instead. You don't get this place, you still very much don't get this place at all, but you suspect you're starting to like it, a _lot_.

They just.

They just have wheeled devices around to hand out.

 _What if yours_ — but no, that can't be.

You're brought back to reality by Havera awkwardly patting the top of your head. You peek at her over the towel; she's smiling at you as if you were crying over a slice of wriggling-day grubcake. You glance at the elder, and even he seems to look slightly less snotty. It's surreal. 

“Do not _settle_ for this apparatus,” he says, nostrils flaring again, before turning around with a dramatic cape swish (that looks quite purposeful) and striding out through the curtains. Guess he was full-on snotty after all?

Elder Plucker just waves a hand at the settling curtains as if fanning away an unpleasant smell, and wordlessly gives you a captchalogue card. You glance at the display in vague curiosity _what_. 

You hand it back while she cackles at your poleaxed expression.

“...not my style,” you mumble, wondering if Vriska drew the fashion plate for those clothes. She's the only person you know who thinks ripped sleeves are awesome, also what's with the red? You thought it was Karkat's super special color. You _really_ don't get these people. 

You decide to just equip your backup clothes without apologizing for it. You are a somewhat hardcore troll who possibly can't be tamed.

Elder Plucker picks you up from the bench with a grunt (the towel slides down to the floor. And it was so clean!), settling you down carefully onto the new device. As awesome as it was, you expected it to be somewhat lacking in the comfort department — but the hide adjusts perfectly to your weight and supports your back with enough give to mold around your shoulder blades. The Elder still goes through the trouble of adjusting your legs on your seat, settling your feet onto the footrests she and Havera somehow fold out from under the wheels. You wheel back and forth experimentally. It's light and moves smoothly under the slightest push. This may possibly be your wriggling day _and_ Twelfth Perigee's Eve, _at the same time_.

“Um, what do I do now,” you ask the Elder, sheepishly. “I don't suppose you have a place where I can stay quietly out of the way, or anything like that, do you?”

“I'm sure it can be arranged,” she wheezes out, limping towards the curtains. “But first we need to go talk to Grandy.” You turn your chair around (it turns so smoothly!) and you're barely facing the cloth when it's pulled aside by the two guards; for your own peace of mind you assume the Elder or Havera gave them some sort of signal. They open the ablution block's doors with a certain degree of theatricality and follow you out on each side of your device while you, for once, struggle to not leave your companions behind rather than the other way around.

“I _could_ take you to the Pupa's Recreational Block,” she says, waving her hand. She seems to use them like punctuation, each motion and finger wiggle expressing a different kind of emphasis. “And I'm sure you'd appreciate being around them more than being around us boring old people. Shoosh, don't question me. I'm old. I know shit.” You'd barely even opened your mouth. “Anyway. I suppose you want to know how Karkat is doing, right?”

“Um, yes,” you say. “Do you think there has been any improvement, since I saw him last, though? When we left he didn't look so good, now that I think back, so I guessed he was going to need a lot more time, to sleep all that off.”

The Elder purses her lips. “Child, I don't know how to put this to you.” She seems to think it over for a couple of seconds, chewing her tongue, before continuing. “Grandy is speedy when it comes to gadgetry, he really should have had your device finished. And when he says he'll have a thing finished he means it. Right now the only priority bigger than you is Karkat, so if anything made that guy put your device down then it was him.”

Your guts start to shrink into themselves. “So... you think Karkat is really, really bad off?”

She waves her hand again. “Charter wouldn't have hung around that long if it was that serious,” she says. “But it's probably at least a _little_ serious, and that makes it worth checking out.”

You nod mutely, focusing on the two guards and the path ahead. The pace is maddeningly slow, and a couple of times you're tempted to ask the Elder if she doesn't want to ride on your lap in Tinkerbull's place. Should she really be walking around when she's making these creepy softy wheezy sounds under her breath? You glance at her from the corner of your eyes, and spot more flickering under the lenses. The glasses are definitely a sort of device. That might explain why everyone except for the kids uses them all the time.

This time you're paying a little more attention to your surroundings when you make it to the lift. Everything is made of metal and rough rock, and the iron-grey platform under you is etched with intertwined circles. It floats down smoothly with no psionic halo and no visible tendrils; you're tempted to look over the edge to see if you can find what keeps it afloat, but the platform has no railings and you're not familiar enough with your new wheeled device to try any dangerous stunts. Tinkerbull might have been up to it were he not asleep, and to be completely honest you're so tired that not even the excitement over new wheels and Karkat's uncertain state can keep your head from drooping heavily every now and then.

You _are_ attentive, though, and when the platform starts to slow down you can tell this is not the workshop you previously visited. Many long horns start peeking over the edge of the descending platform, and you brace yourself as they're followed by grey-hooded heads, shoulders, angrily waving arms and long trailing cloaks. 

The platform shudders to a stop in the middle of a square block full of square desks, shelves, thick tomes and the smell of old paper. In front of you several adults bicker and gesticulate in clear frustration, shaking sheets of paper at each other.

“Behold!” Elder Plucker whispers in your ear, her long bony hand making the abbreviated version of a long sweeping gesture. “The Council of Elders!”

They don't look all that different from a gathering of any old bunch of kids your age — even the part where, one by one, they spot you and freeze in varying degrees of fluster. You're too tired at this point to feel flustered yourself; after being bathed by a wizened old woman and a little girl you feel a lot more prepared to take these people on. It helps that none of them look as shrivelled and dry as Elder Plucker.

You hesitantly wheel off of the platform, glancing around until you spot Big Elder sitting at one of the tables, looking somewhat harried. He stops pinching the bridge of his nose when he notices you, his shades dropping somewhat skewed back in place, and straightens his back.

“Tavros,” he says, in a sort of surprised greeting. Some of the other adults around you mutter under their breaths, and you wonder if you're not imagining their displeased tone. Well, if they don't like your name, they'll just have to deal; you weren't the one who chose it.

You make a beeline for the Big Elder and do your best to ignore the others.

“Do you know if Karkat's doing any better, or if he'll be okay, in the long term?”

He doesn't answer at first, though you feel he's studying you intensely from under those dark lenses. The room is silent; here and there, some of the others fidget uncomfortably. You don't move, half-stubborn and half-frozen under his gaze, but eventually he turns on his stool to face you head-on.

“He is resting,” he says. “The healers have put him under full immersion treatment, and his spasms appear to be under control for the moment. However, the poison he's suffering from has no known antidote on our planet, and we have exhausted all our medical knowledge merely in alleviating the worst of his symptoms. Fortunately,” he quickly adds when your face starts to fall, “we have associates with access to much more advanced medical knowledge, and they believe the poison will run its course and fade as long as we can keep him alive through the process. The issue lies in determining how long that will take, as they can't predict how the poison will interact with Karkat's physiology; it is also compounded by the blood loss and the wound — two very serious matters on their own. Also...” his voice grows somber. “Our location has been compromised.”

You sag back on your device, and even after your shoulder blades hit the hide it still feels like you're falling. You clutch the armrests, take a few deep breaths. You don't need to be told. _You_ compromised it. 

“What's going to happen,” you mumble through numb lips. 

“We'll move,” he says, simply. At the look on your face he rather ostensibly relaxes back on his seat, raising a corner of his mouth. “As we have oftentimes before. Our most worrisome issue lies in the timing, as Karkat is in no condition to be moved any great distance.”

“And so you would have him moved a _preposterous_ distance instead!” spits out another elder, throwing his hands up. “Of course! Makes _perfect_ sense!”

The whole room rises up in offended mutters.

“Don't be cute,” says a woman with sawed horns, angrily whipping a stack of papers at the speaker. “The transportation is instantaneous. It's not at all comparable to carrying him off in a tank through unstable tunnels!”

“The tunnels are perfectly safe!”

“No they're not,” says the Snotty Elder, dryly. “They're full of _very_ ferocious adolescents in imperial armor.” He checks the computing pad in his hand. “I've just received a notice that their racket caused tunnel 274B to—”

“What do you know, you're just a _charter_ ,” said the first elder. “Who even let you in?”

Snotty made a face like he'd just swallowed a cartful of lemons. 

“You're letting your mistrust cloud your judgement,” says another elder. “The Messenger—”

“The _Messenger_ can kiss my wrinkly butt,” he says; some of the elders around you nod emphatically, while others gasp and cover their mouths and generally look offended.

“The messenger is a good friend,” says Big Elder, levely. “I would trust him with my life.”

The complaining elder uncovers a long nasty row of fangs as he grins, leaning down into the Big Elder's face — not very far, as the Big Elder on a seat is hardly a head shorter than him.

“Are you placing _your_ life on the same level as _His_ life?” he asks, his voice almost gleeful. “Eh, _Grand_ Elder?”

“Fine, then,” says the Big Elder — who is also apparently the Grand Elder. He seems entirely unfazed. “I would trust him with _Karkat's_ life — and you would do well to put your feelings aside for this matter. You're letting your _ambition_ cloud your judgement. This petty rivalry exists only in your head.”

The entire room goes deathly quiet.

“Oooh, ice- _burn_ ,” someone says, but when the elder hurriedly looks around for the source, everyone is quiet and poker-faced. The elder himself seems beyond pissed; he pulls his hood down until only his gritted teeth are visible before turning back to Big Elder.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he gasps out, shoulders heaving; behind him, someone manages to express eye-rolling despite wearing shades. “All I know is, I _don't_ trust your judgement, and I _don't_ trust that guy.”

“He's been an ally for almost thirty sweeps,” adds a soft-voiced elder, stepping forward. “What more do you want?”

Once again, vaguely discordant mutters spread through the room like wildfire, and elders sort of coagulate in pairs and trios as they gesticulate, first to the Big Elder and his opponent, then to each other.

“I'm not the only one who thinks this way!” the elder continues, his voice shrill. He points to Snotty, whipping his arm so fast his whole cape sways. “Didn't you once call him a frivolous airhead?”

“Hm?” Snotty raises an eyebrow at him.

“Don't you _agree_ with me?” he says, sounding a little desperate.

Snotty just turns back to his pad with a dismissive shrug. “I'm just a charter, what do I know.”

The elder grits his teeth. “ _Plucker!_ ” he barks, and you nearly jump when he whips his head to you; Tinkerbull wakes up with a start, and you gather him in your arms, shooshing under your breath.

“What about me?” she asks from somewhere behind you.

“Don't you have anything to add?”

“Well...” she drawls. “This whole argument is hilarious. Also, the messenger is hot. I think that's all.”

His arm sags, his chin crumples; he takes unsteady breaths, his hooded head turning this way and that, before sagging onto the nearest stool, face buried in shaky hands.

The atmosphere changes completely; the other cultists move forward almost as one, surrounding the sobbing elder with shooshes, patting his back and fanning him with papers and writing pads. Big Elder almost sheepishly offers a bottle of water, which the guy turns away from with all the dignified offense of a wiggler in a tantrum.

“How can you _just_ — how _do_ you— how _dare_ you—” he gibbers out, his voice squeaky and wracked with sobs; his shoulders shake so high, one could mistake his gross sobbing for a particularly spirited chortle if not for the wrecked sounds he were making. The woman with sawed horns sticks a black square of cloth into the shadows under his hood, and he quickly nabs it out of her hand, slaps it over his face, takes a few shaky breaths and then blows his nose.

Elder Plucker leans into your line of sight like a particularly terrifying mask dropping from the ceiling. “Now _this_ is more embarrassing than amusing,” she says, but her voice is soft. “Do you have any other questions you'd like to ask?”

You glance at the huddle of distressed elders; the crying one seems to have finally accepted Big Elder's bottle, drinking from it with his head thrown back and eyes pinched shut, his shades held by the earpiece in shaky fingers.

“Um, no,” you say. Even if you did, you don't think any of them would be up to answering. 

“Wanna go rest, then? In that quiet, out of the way place you asked me for?”

You nod eagerly.

Snotty strides past her, nose in the air and a steaming mug in hand, and she grasps his cloak; he grimaces and staggers, leaning back as if trying not to stretch the fabric. 

“ _What_ ,” he says, glaring at her and yanking the cape back from her fingers.

“Care to show us his _quarters_ for the day?” She sticks her chin at you.

He raises his pad and scrolls it with his thumb, his other hand still carefully holding the mug aloft, before turning to — wait, the guards are still on the platform. And so is Havera, sitting down and watching the whole display with an air of quiet boredom.

Snotty flicks his fingers at the guards. “Guide the Summoner to the Cradle of Righteous Rage, if you please.” He then turns to you. “There _should_ be an extra padded mound for you, but if for whatever _reason_ it's not there yet,” his nostrils dilate as if the mere thought offended him, “feel free to make use of the Carrier of Blood's altar. He won't require it for the foreseeable future.” And then he hurriedly strides off to hand the crying elder, now apparently pacified, the mug he'd been carefully holding.

“Think you can help him there?” asks Elder Plucker, and Havera cheerfully jumps to her feet, nodding emphatically. You wheel back onto the platform, and Plucker waves to you; the platform rises, slowly covering the baffling scene of a crying adult being consoled by people with clear advantages over him.

The prospect of rest is making your tiredness get the better of you, and you follow the guards' lead without paying much attention to the path you're following. At some point there was a huge block with water pools and cascades and a metal bridge, and it was all really pretty, but you were rolling on automatic and your clearest thought was to keep the place in mind for a later visit.

You do notice straight away when you make it to Karkat's cradle whatsit; the walls are sanded and carved in delicate arcs, and there's cloth and draperies hanging from the ceiling and the furniture, pooling on the floor in smooth folds. Red is a prominent color, but rather than feeling uncomfortably warm on the retinas it sort of straddles the line between cozy and elegant. The light-gray cloaked figures gathering red-stained bandages from a desk are also kind of a giveaway, as is the fact that the guards joined six others standing in front of the entrance instead of walking in.

You glance around the room, woozily at first, but then in growing confusion. Havera seems to have no trouble wandering in and poking around, though; she tugs one of the capes, and has a short mumbled discussion with its owner before skipping back to you.

“Looks like your paddy isn't here yet,” she says. “Healer Braider says Carver had an emotional breakdown and will need a night off before it's finished. But you can use Karkat's, it's all fancy but really soft.” She leans closer to you, shielding her lips with a hand as if imparting a great secret. “ _I slept on it once!_ ”

It just confirms what you were already starting to suspect: this room truly does lack a recuperacoon, and you're expected to sleep on the thing that looks like an ablution trap overflowing with decoratively-stitched fabric. You side-eye it a little harder, but despite bearing the full weight of your mildly disapproving gaze it doesn't stop looking like an overly-decorated grubcake.

“Don't you get nightmares, though?” you ask Havera. 

She looks momentarily as confused as you feel, but soon her face clears up, and she nods.

“Oh, yes!” she says. “Once I dreamed that my arm was made of rubber, and it was really scary, all floppy and weird. But that was because I slept on it. When I woke up Rhavik massaged it for me until it got better.”

She raises her pristine little arm on display, and you can but smile and nod in response. Havera has been by far the most approachable source of information you've been in contact with all evening, but you doubt she'll be able to answer the half-formed questions flying around in your tired head. Some of the light-cloaks are looking amusedly sympathetic at you; you smile back with a weak shrug, rolling your chair towards the grubcake-coon. 

A couple of light-cloaks approach, and you allow them to fuss at the absurd thing and pick you up from your device. You don't pay them much attention; most of what little you can gather is wholly transfixed by the round, crystalline pool inlaid in the floor, and by Karkat's unconscious shape floating in it — hair swaying, eyelids translucent, the wide-slit gills lining his ribs gently pulsing in the current. 

  



	15. > join "TV II2 BO22"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: do not google search "dorsata" unless you're okay with huge fucking bees. 
> 
> **EDIT:** Continuity mishap detected! I edited in an extra line, you might want to read it over again. More info [here.](http://elanorpam.tumblr.com/post/37271640608/from-chapter-4-of-cultstuck-tc-but-to-my-pale)

\--  terminallyCapricious [TC] has joined "TV II2 BO22" --

\--  adiosToreador [AT] has left "TV II2 BO22" --

TC: aw fuck, i went and missed my main tavbro.  
AA: there you are!  
AA: i was starting to get worried  
GA: Hello Gamzee  
CT: D --> Highb100d  
CT: D --> It is a relief to have your safety confirmed  
GC: WH4T TH3 H3LL 1S UP W1TH YOUR TYP1NG?  
TC: NOTHING WHAT YOU SHOULD GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN' PAN IN A TWIST  
TC: honk  
TA: well, THAT ii2n't weiird at all.  
TA: are you 2ure you're really TC and not 2ome jerkbulge at hii2 keyboard tryiing to be clever?  
AA: no im sure!  
AA: i have it on good authority that this is gamzee  
TC: YEAH I'M PRETTY MOTHERFUCKIN' SURE I'M ME.  
TC: last i checked that was still a thing that was true.  
AA: hes just in a cranky mood because he quit sopor and is going through withdrawal  
AA: am i right?  
TA: huh.  
GC: 4WW, K4RK4T WOULD B3 TY1NG H1MS3LF 1NTO L1TTL3 H4PPY KNOTS R1GHT NOW  
TA: talk about bad tiimiing, though.  
CT: D --> Highb100d, this news is abso100tely delightful  
GA: I Say The Same Though I Also Believe The Situation Is Less Than Ideal For Such Delicate Health Matters  
GC: 1 D1S4GR33, 1 TH1NK TH3 T1M1NG COULDNT H4V3 B33N B3TT3R  
GA: Still I Wish You The Best Of Luck I Understand That This Has Been An Ongoing Ordeal For You  
TC: GRIMSIS I'M ALL OF TIPPING MY HORNS AT YOUR BESTWISHING FROM THIS HERE SIDE OF MY HUSKTOP  
TC: as far as they go before all toppling me off like a sad jack hanging limp down out his surprise box. :o(  
TC: BUT I AIN'T GONNA JUDGE THE TIME OF IT BECAUSE I AIN'T NO JUDGE AND TIME AIN'T MY THING.  
TC: all i know is my bro needs me.  
TC: HE'S IN MOTHERFUCKING NEED OF THESE MOTHERFUCKING CLUBS I GOT ON ME HERE.  
TC: so i can auspisticize the fuck out of these motherfuckers what set their enmity on him when he wants it none.  
TC: AUSPISTICIZE THEIR MOTHERFUCKING SKULLS RIGHT IN.  
TA: thii2 ii2 2eriiou2ly freakiing me out  
TC: until they get their thinkpans on to the understanding that he don't want nor need no black in his bloodpusher.  
CT: D --> Highb100d  
CT: D --> It appears that  
CT: D --> You have embraced your true calling  
TC: WHEN MY MOTHERFUCKING BROTHER CALLS I'M UP AND READY TO EMBRACE ANY OLD SHIT.  
CT: D --> But  
GC: 1 S1MPLY H4V3 NO 3MOT1CON TO 3XPR3SS TH3 CONTORT1ONS MY F4C14L MUSCL3S 4R3 M4K1NG R1GHT NOW  
CT: D --> Clearly it falls to me to open your eyes to the matter of Vantas' true nature  
TC: make it entertaining and i'll forgive you.  
CT: D --> He is a mutant  
CT: D --> Erm  
CT: D --> That is it  
CT: D --> Mostly  
TC: WELL THAT SURE WAS A MOTHERFUCKING RIOT TO READ.  
TC: paint me surprised  
TC: IN BRIGHT FUCKING MIRACLE RED.  
TC: which is the color of his blood by the byes.  
GC: 4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4  
CT: D --> But  
TC: THAT THERE IS A DOUBLE METAPHOR, TOUCH HIS BLOOD AND I'LL PAINT MY MOTHERFUCKING HIVE BLUE.  
GA: So You Are Aware Even Of The Extent Of His Mutation  
AA: you appear to be a lot more informed than us in this matter  
TC : yeah i'm all up in the motherfucking knowing of all the harshwhimsies he goes through.  
CT: D --> How can you brush this fact off so easily  
AA: care to share what you know?  
TA: okay, ii ju2t got a 2nap2hot from TC's webcam, iit really ii2 hiim.

\--  twinArmaggedons [TA] is sending file "[niice_clown.png](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/11767631/cultstuck_images/solpics/niice%20clown.png)" --

TA: warniing for freaky eye2.  
GC: WOW, G4MZ33, YOU LOOK L1K3 SH1T  
GC: HOW D1D YOUR F4C3 G3T CL4W3D L1K3 TH4T?  
CT: D --> Highb100d, it is not my place to insist but  
CT: D --> Please come to your senses  
CT: D --> Someone of your station sh001d not be fraternizing with such a subtrollish deviation of nature itself  
CT: D --> That is beyond disgraceful, not to mention dangerous  
TC: SHUT THE FUCK UP, LOWBLOOD.  
CT: D --> My  
TC: aw, motherfuck.  
CT: D --> Apologies  
AA: yes PLEASE shut up equius  
TC: i can't up and say that kind of shit to none, no.  
TC: that ain't right.  
TC: if any one fucker here is lowblood then what does that make my main bro karkat?  
TC: and my tavbro, and my green chicas here, and the computer bother,  
GC: 444W, SHUCKS >:]  
TC: and my aradiasis too, you an upright sis, you don't deserve this kinda shit.  
GA: I Appreciate That  
TA: yeah man, you're pretty okay iin my book two.  
AA: thanks 0u0  
CT: D --> You were merely e%ercising your natural right to put us in our place  
CT: D --> No apologies are required  
TC: SHUT THE FUCK UP, TOWELFUCKER.  
CT: D --> Uh  
TA: oh man.  
GC: WOW, H4RSH!  
GC: 4S 4 L3G1SL4C3R4TOR 1 S4LUT3 TH4T B34UT1FUL 3FFORT  
TA: towelfucker.  
TA: be2t fuckiing thing iin thii2 log.  
TA: and tru2t me, you were up agaiin2t 2ome tough competiitiion.  
AA: okay everyone i understand wanting to verbally kick equius around but we really should get back on topic  
AA: gamzee up until a while ago vriska was keeping us up to date on the goings-on at karkats hive  
AA: picking information from the threshecutioners minds  
AA: but once she told us of karkats mutation she stopped responding  
AA: and a few minutes later she went idle  
TC: yeah sis, we were kinda really getting our concentrating on to the motherfucking plan what we were putting together.  
AA: but as far as im aware of she was attempting to convince their leader to leave the hive and  
AA: wait  
AA: what  
TC: THE PLAN TO GET THOSE THERE MOTHERFUCKERS TO FOLLOW OUR TRAIL OF MIRACLE DUST UP TO OUR HIVES  
TC: and have ourselves a motherfucking party.  
AA: urgh are you trying to tell me that you had anything to do with her absolutely stupid plan  
TA: funny how thii2 ii2 the fiir2t we hear of that.  
GC: HUH YOU KNOW VR1SK4 BR4GG3D 4 LOT 4BOUT H3R PL4N BUT TOTALLY FORGOT TO M3NT1ON YOU W3R3 4 P4RT OF 1T  
TC: WE WERE DOING IT.  
TC: we were making it happen.  
TC: SHE READ A WHOLE MOTHERFUCKING BUNCH OF SHIT IN THEIR THINKPANS  
TC: and put all them niggly little ideas to get them to do what we wanted.  
TC: AND I  
TC: and i  
TC: MADE THEM FEAR NOT DOING THAT SHIT.  
TC: made them get their unease on to not be getting some grubjuice to hand their bosses pronto.  
TC: MADE THEM GET THEIR MOTHERFUCKING UNEASE ON ABOUT HOW THIS MUTANTBROTHER WAS ALL OF NOT AROUND WHERE THEY THOUGHT THEY HAD HIM.  
TC: made them think what if that motherfucker wasn't about to get his motherfucking return on to his unsafe hive no more  
TC: MADE THEM THINK REAL SERIOUSLY ABOUT FOLLOWING THIS SPARKLING TRAIL OF MOTHERFUCKING CRUMBS TO THESE OTHER HIVES THEY'D GOT THEIR KNOWLEDGE ON ABOUT.  
TC: where it just got more and more clear on their pans they'd find these meek little grubs what would squeal anything they got their ask on about  
TC: THESE NAIVE LITTLE FUCKERS WHAT DIDN'T ALL OF KNOW THEIR MUTANTBROTHER WAS NOT GETTING HIS MESSAGING ON THIS EVENING  
TC: these stupid little wigglers what didn't know there was a big smart tough thresher on their brother's keyboard instead.  
TC: AND YOU KNOW WHAT?  
TC: it was easy.  
TC: IT WAS EASY AS ALL MOTHERFUCK.  
TC: and now when i send up my thoughts to his hive  
TC: ALL I FIND IS OUR ONE MOTHERFUCKING MIRACLE ALLY.  
TA: well fuck me.  
GC: WH4T 4LLY?  
CT: Oh God  
AA: who is there and how do you know they're trustworthy  
CT: Please tell me it's not Nepeta  
AA: uh no i really doubt its nepeta  
GA: ...  
AA: you said it yourself that she left your hive recently and will be en route to her own for a few hours at least  
AA: karkats is nearly a quarter planet away from you two it is logistically impossible without actual flight capabilities  
CT: D --> That  
CT: D --> Is true  
CT: D --> Please ignore that outburst, I am not entirely sure what brought it on  
CT: D --> E%cuse me, I must step off for a moment  
CT: D --> It is nothing to cause concern please do keep doing your talking thing   
GA: Well Be Here When Youre Back  
GC: Y34H NO WORR13S  
TA: ju2t go do your thiing, biig guy.  
AA: i hope you feel better when youre done  
AA: anyway  
AA: this ally

\--  centaursTesticle [CT] is idle --

AA: what can you tell us about them  
GC: 1NQU1R1NG M1NDS W4NT TO KNOW!  
GC: H3LLO?  
TA: he'2 kiind of zoned out, iit'2 weiird.  
GC: HM  
TA: btw ii'm 2tiill connected two your webcam, GZ, hope you don't miind iit iin the ciircumstance2.  
TC: nah, i was just keeping a tracking eye up on that motherfucker.  
TC: MAKING SURE HE AIN'T PAWING THROUGH MY GOOD BRO'S SHIT  
TC: but he's being all kinds of respectful so it's chill.  
GA: I Confess That Is Just Making Me Even More Anxious About This Supposed Ally And His Intentions With Regards To Karkat  
GA: If He Displays No Interest In Karkat's Material Goods Then What Does He Stand To Gain From Helping Him  
TA: ugh, why diid you have two briing that up?  
AA: something other than vague assurances would be welcome right now gamzee  
TC: I SEE YOU FUCKERS GOT NO MOTHERFUCKING TRUST IN MY MOTHERFUCKIN WORD.  
TC: but i got the motherfucking certainty on me that this fucker won't touch me bro.  
TC: BECAUSE THIS FUCKER   
TC: is all up and being a follower  
TC: OF THE FORBIDDEN IRON MESSIAH.  
TA: oh FUCK.  
GC: >:?  
TA: 2hiit, ii can't beliieve thii2, ii thought he wa2 2marter than that.  
AA: hm  
GA: Could You Perhaps Elaborate On Whatever Is So Expletive Inducing About This Development  
GA: Not That The Word Forbidden Does Not Paint An Alarming Picture  
TA: no, you 2ee.  
TA: they're the grey cultii2t2.  
CT: D --> I return  
TA: ii gue22 you wouldn't know about them but they're kiind of an open 2ecret among lowblood2.  
CT: D --> What  
AA: we tend to avoid dealing with them outside of emergencies  
AA: they possess advanced healing technology and knowledge though and they dont ask questions so it really is in our best interest to remain in friendly terms with the group  
AA: theyre eerie but harmless which is in itself eerie i guess  
TA: yeah, they al2o deal in all 2orts of semiilegal 2hiit for real cheap.  
TC: yeah that does up and ring with the likeness of what all i know of them.  
AA: i bought tavros' wheeled device from their used goods booth for five caegars   
GC: OOH   
GC: 4R4D14 1 M1GHT H4V3 TO 4RR3ST YOU FOR TH4T ST34L   
TA: rumor 2ay2 they'll even hook you up wiith pre-miixed genetiic materiial iif you thiink your paiil look2 too empty for the drone'2 ta2te2.  
AA: oh that one is new to me  
CT: D --> That  
TA: for real diirt cheap two, but ii dunno how much of that ii2 true iif any.  
CT: D --> Is e%tremely depraved  
TC: HONK  
TA: ii dealt wiith them once and then never the fuck agaiin.  
CT: D --> Are you saying  
GC: 1M CUR1OUS NOW  
CT: D --> You have willingly come into conta%t with these slurry-selling undesirables  
GC: C4R3 TO SH4R3 TH1S T4L3?  
TA: iit'2 not that iintere2tiing, ii ju2t needed some computer part2 ii couldn't get wiith my yellowblood credentiial2 and found out about the2e 2hadowy fuckers who miight be able to hook me up wiith 2econd-hand2 under the table.  
CT: D --> You really should not  
CT: D --> I am aghast  
TA: ii'd heard of tho2e grey a22hole2, but only from 2care-wiigler tale2.  
GA: This Is Fascinating  
TA: wa2 expectiing a po22ee of rebelliiou2 bada22es iin a ba2ement wiith riickety furniiture and drug2 and led2 and 2hiit who ii miight po22iibly have to dariingly e2cape from, boy wa2 ii di2appointed.  
GC: JUST G3T ON W1TH 1T!  
TC: wow i'm already got my mirth on just at the honking thought of all this, brother XoD  
TA: ii walk iinto theiir 2uper 2ecret 2tore whiich wa2 a crack in a cliiff face up a narrow fliight of 2taiirs high above the sea, you know, defen2iible and hard two fiind, pretty iimpre22iive 2o far.  
TA: but iin2ide iit wa2 ju2t thii2 tool behind a counter weariing the2e 2tupiid looking 2hade2 and a grey hoodiie, and when ii walk iin he'2 like "2up" wiith thii2 wiide dorky griin.  
TA: ii wanted two punch hiim.  
AA: haha wow this sounds like its going to be great  
TC: HONK HONK HONK.  
TA: iit'2 not great, it'2 beyond lame.  
TA: the 2tore wa2 2o goddamn pouncy iit wa2 dii2gu2tiing, all 2anded and paiinted wiith 2wirl2 and flower2 and decorated wiith crochet or 2ome 2hiit ii kiid you not.  
GC: D1D 1T 4T L34ST H4V3 YOUR P4RTS?  
TA: calm down, ii'm gettiing there.  
CT: D --> I really cannot see how any good could come from this tale  
GA: Can You Describe Those Decorations I Might Be Able To Tell If Its Really Crochet  
TA: 2o when ii walk up two the counter my expectatiion2 are already plummettiing fa2ter than KK'2 2elf-e2teem after ii kiick hi2 a22 in troll counter-2triike.  
TA: ii a2k hiim "2o what have you got on the liine of honeycomb fiilter2" and he 2ay2 "we got model2 E-1001 a two k for 25 to 30 caegar2 and the whole G liine except for the G-48 2ub2et for 50" and 2ome re2pect return2 becau2e G-48 ii2 the wor2t dii2a2ter iin the hii2tory of 2iiliicomb and ju2t haviing iit iin 2tock 2hould be ground2 for culliing.   
TA: but ii diigre22.  
CT: D --> I am not familiar with silicomb but the grievous tales of G-48's infamous design flaws are well known and I sympathize  
CT: D --> Not to say that this whole debacle wasn't e%eedingly foolish in the first place but  
AA: stop butting in  
CT: D --> Fine  
TA: ii al2o bought a bunch of other part2 whiich ii won't bore you guy2 wiith, and he riing2 2omeone two briing out the dor2ata plate ii a2ked for, biig deliicate rare part, iit wa2 rea2onable that the counter guy wouldn't keep iit on hiim, you know.  
TA: we're down to haggliing the final priice when 2uddenly the cave wall behiind hiim 2liides open and ii'm liike, fuck.  
TA: and out comes an adult, an actual to fuck adult, and ii'm liike FUCK FUCK DOUBLE FUCK HAGGLIING TIIME IIS OVER.  
GC: >:O  
GA: Oh No That Sounds Terrifying And The Exact Opposite Of Lame  
CT: D --> So not only is this illegal rea%ionary group involved with contraband, it is also involved with dishonorable fugitives  
GC: D1D YOU D13?  
TA: 2hup up and let me fiinii2h before you maniife2t your 2ympathiies.  
TA: ii take off my gla22es and get ready to captchalogue the whole counter, bla2t the place and bolt, but.  
TA: the adult ju2t 2ets the dor2ata plate on the counter all gentle liike.  
TA: ii don't thiink you guy2 can under2tand thii2.  
TA: ii don't thiink anyone wiithout an iintiimate knowledge of 2iiliicomb would under2tand thiis next part.  
CT: D --> Oh  
AA: get on with it!  
CT: D --> Oh fiddlesti%  
TC: honk  
TA: looks liike EQ can iimagiine my conundrum, hehe.  
GC: WH4T 1S 1T NOW? >:[  
TA: iit wa2 a fuckiing dor2ata plate.  
GA: What Is So Important About This Particular Piece Of Machinery  
TA: you don't make any 2udden movement2 in the vicinity of a dor2ata plate.  
TA: iin the pre2ence of a dor2ata plate, you only talk iin gentle whii2per2.  
TA: you do not captchalogue a dor2ata plate, you loviingly depo2iit iit iin2iide your card a2 iif you were a devoted lu2u2 and the plate wa2 your preciiou2 2iilk-2pun wiigler and the card was iit2 cocoon.  
CT: D --> I could never possibly handle such a delicate instrument  
GC: Y34H 1 SUR3 C4N'T G3T TH4T  
GA: I Can Picture Being In A Similar Position Involving The Presence Of A Vintage Singer Sewing Machina  
TA: ii couldn't grab iit and run, and ii couldn't bear the thought of bla2tiing iit either.  
GA: What Wouldnt I Do For The Sake Of One  
TC: TOO MUCH INFORMATION Do:  
TA: 2o ii ju2t 2tood there frozen 2taring at the adult and thiinkiing thii2 ii2 iit, ii'm fuckiing DONE and iit's all because of thii2 dor2ata plate.  
CT: D --> Whatever came of this tale was the fault of your own irresponsibility  
AA: hush  
TA: and the adult 2teps back from the plate and glance2 at me and doe2 the mo2t hiilariiou2 double-take and then 2hiit get2 downriight 2urreal.  
TA: and al2o really lame.  
GC: Y34H 1M ST1LL W41T1NG FOR TH3 P4RT WH3R3 W3 4LL F1ND TH1S FUNNY  
TA: you wiill now.  
TA: the fucker ju2t 2tares at me and hii2 brow2 are so hiigh up they're above hii2 gla22e2.  
TA: then he 2tart2 giibberiing under hii2 breath and, liike, turn2 to a corner and 2tart2 2obbiing liike hii2 lu2u2 ju2t got 2hot and mumbliing about hii2 bull2hiit reliigiion.  
AA: huh  
GA: ...  
TA: the counter guy ju2t bliink2 at hiim and then turn2 two me and ii2 liike "waiit a 2econd wiill you".  
GC: WOW WH4T TH3 H3LL  
TC: fuck it sure hurts to chortle this bad when a fucker's innards are already up and twisted around XoD  
TA: then he pull2 out a tea 2et and before ii know iit the three of u2 are driinkiing tea riight there iin front of the counter and thii2 bunch of tool2 in hood2 and gla22e2 keep comiing out of the wall two look at me and then walk back iin liike ii'm 2ome 2ort of ciircu2 freak they're triippiing over them2elve2 two ogle. ii 2wear half of them were adult2, iit wa2 crazy 2hiit.  
GC: OK4Y 1 4DM1T TH4T 1S B1Z4RR3 4ND H1L4R1OUS  
TA: the plate dude wa2 2tiill 2hakiing and cryiing into hii2 cup, he couldn't even talk.  
GA: So Everything Went Better Than Expected  
GA: That Really Is Amusing After All The Suspense  
CT: D --> That was  
AA: i told you guys these people are eerily harmless  
CT: D --> Une%pected  
TA: counter guy wa2 a total trooper, two. ii don't thiink he knew what wa2 goiing on eiither but he ju2t kept on brewiing thii2 A++ grade tea and 2erviing iit along wiith the be2t 2cone2 ii've ever had whiile we talked 2iiliicomb2 and hypothetiical metal deviice2, then he packed my 2tuff the proper way and gave me a dii2count for the iinconveniience along wiith the re2t of the 2cone2 for the triip back or 2omethiing liike that, 2ure wa2 generou2 a2 fuck.  
TA: "oh come back 2oon we'll get a 2hiipment iin a couple periigee2" well hell iif ii diid, ii ju2t went to my hiive and freaked out iin 2afety.   
TA: they gave me 2ome qualiity materiial though. ii'm so glad ii diidn't bla2t that plate.  
TA: but liike ii 2aiid, ii really don't 2ee KK 2ufferiing theiir crazyne22 wiith much grace.  
GA: That Is True  
TA: on the other hand iif he'2 a blood mutant he wouldn't have a choiice, would he.   
GC: NOT R34LLY >:[  
GA: That Is Also True  
AA: yeah  
TC: TRUTH.  
TC: brother never did up and get the chance to make his own motherfucking choice in that matter none. :o(  
CT: D --> I see  
GA: Their Association Is Possibly The Only Reason Karkat Was Able To Pass Unnoticed For So Long  
CT: D --> It appears I was corre%t about Vantas' possible involvement with undesirable elements  
GA: I Do Not Envy Him  
CT: D --> It is not surprising when you take the apparent e%tent of his mutation into account  
CT: D --> There is truly no depth he as a mutant could not feel naturally inclined to sink to  
TC: YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH RIGHT FUCKING NOW.  
TC: my brother never ever had a fucking say in this none.  
TC: THEY FOUND HIM.  
TC: they had their stalking up in from the motherfucking beginning  
TC: AND THEY UP AND FOUND HIS TINY LITTLE GRUBSELF RIGHT AFTER HE ALIGHTED UNDER OUR MOTHERFUCKING MOONS.  
GA: Gamzee What  
TC: they had it all on the ready for his miracle arrival, they had it on their walls and on their prophecies  
TC: AS TOLD BY THE FORBIDDEN TOMES AND THE MOUTH OF THE IRON MESSIAH HIMSELF  
TA: oh god ii'm freakiing out what are you even 2ayiing  
TC: i'm saying they knew a karkat was gonna be  
TC: BEFORE KARKAT WAS.  
TC: i'm saying there was a karkat once   
TC: WAY THE FUCK BACK WHEN.  
TC: i'm saying our inside guy's kissing the floor of our brother's hive   
TC: RIGHT FUCKING NOW  
TC: because he's his motherfucking savior come back in flesh and holy blood  
TC: THE HOLY RED BLOOD WHAT THEY PRAY FOR EVERY NIGHT.  
TC: karkat is the descendant   
TC: OF THE IRON MESSIAH.  
TC: it is him.  
TA: thii2 ii2 2o freaky ii don't even know why  
GC: G4MZ33, H33L  
AA: this is amazing! i have so much to ask him when we meet again 0u0  
GC: STOP BRO4DC4ST1NG YOUR WH4T3V3R TH1NG 1 C4N F33L 1T FROM H3R3 4ND 1TS NOT FUN  
TA: KK ii2 up two hii2 neck iin grey cultii2t2 what do we do no wonder the thre2hiie2 went crazy about iit ii mean they're  
TA: uh  
TC: ugh, my bad  
GA: Deep Breaths Sollux This Is An Outside Influence  
TA: you know now that ii thiink about iit ii have no iidea why they're 2uch a biig deal?  
TC: my pan is killing me and i don't much know what i'm doing even  
TA: who the hell ii2 theiir me22iiah and why doe2 law enforcement even giive a 2hiit?  
AA: yes that is a great question!  
TA: tho2e guy2 are 2uper lame and ii 2tiill can't beliieve KK ha2 anythiing two do wiith them.  
TA: ii mean, ii get that he'2 theiir leader'2 de2cendant apparently, but 2tiill.  
TA: why not ju2t 2end a bunch of drone2 and carpet-bomb the whole area?  
TC: the things i could tell you fuckers  
TC: but ugh gimme five   
TC: the screen burns  
CT: D --> Vantas  
GC: TH4T 1S 4 V3RY P3RT1N3NT QU3ST1ON BUT 1 R3S3NT TH3 M3R3 THOUGHT OF OUR L1TTL3 CH3RRY P13 B31NG C4RP3T-BOMB3D SO TURN YOUR MOUTH 4W4Y  
GA: True That Is Normally Their Modus Operandi   
GC: 4V4UNT!  
GA: And If Their Intention Was To Investigate Him And His Contacts As It Appears To Be Then It Is Strange That They Didnt Just Spy On His Hive Until He Arrived And Then Captured Him Without Involving His Neighbours  
CT: D --> Oh my God  
GA: For That Matter How Did They Even Find Out Which Hive Was His And Who He Was  
AA: what is it NOW equius do you need more towels or smelling salts or whatever because im quickly losing patience with your little scandalized histrionics  
GC: TH4T 1S 4LSO 4 V3RY P3RT1N3NT QU3ST1ON  
CT: D --> No you don't get it  
CT: D --> If  
GC: 1F?  
CT: D --> Then  
CT: D --> He is their leader  
CT: D --> Adults on planet  
CT: D --> Smugglers on planet  
CT: D --> Adult smugglers  
CT: D --> And slurry sellers  
TA: ii thiink we broke hiim.  
CT: D --> And he is their leader  
CT: D --> It is him  
AA: get a grip do you really think adults would take orders from a child  
CT: D --> And I have lowered myself into talking to him  
CT: D --> Thinking of it as an a%t of kindness  
GC: 1 TH1NK 1M JUST GO1NG TO TUN3 YOUR SH1TTY BLU3 OUT  
TA: he'2 not theiir leader you dumba22, at mo2t he'2 theiir long term project for a leader.   
CT: D --> My skin is crawling  
CT: D --> This is awful and outrageous  
CT: D --> And  
CT: D --> I let Nepeta intera%t with him  
CT: D --> I should be culled for that  
TA: look, go roll around iin towel2 or ma2turbate two your hor2e porn or whatever iit take2 two calm you down, 2o long a2 you 2top 2pammiing the chat wiith your dii2gu2tiing ca2teiist 2pew.  
TA: we get iit, you're a blueblood douche and you thiink it'2 KK'2 fault whatever thii2 bunch of dumba22e2 chose two do iin hii2 ance2tor's name, WHATEVER.  
GA: Yes Equius Youre Being Extremely Unfair In Your Assessment Of Karkats Responsibility  
TA: hurr durr ii am bl00bl00d mcpropriiety and cla22ii2m ii2 my tiitle ii hump robots and lube them up wiith my 2weat look at my collectiion of glii2teniing anthropomorphiized mu2clebea2ts theiir anatomiically iimpo22iible giiant bulges make me go tiight iin my liitle 2hort-2hort2 HURR HURR HURR.  
CT: D --> Stop  
GA: And Sollux This Is Seriously Uncalled For  
TA: look at thii2 deliicate liittle piiece of lu2u2 miilk-holding cry2tal contaiiner ii'm holdiing iin my giiant bl00-paw iimma driink the 2HIIT out of thii2 WHOOP2 THERE IIT GOE2 IIT'S NOW A BUNCH OF 2HARD2 BECAU2E II AM A FREAK OF NATURE.   
CT: D --> Halt  
TA: but iit'2 liike a totally natural sort of freakne22 not a mutatiion or anythiing TRUFAX ii am bl00bl00d liike FUCK man no genetiic funnybu2iine22 goiing on here nope.  
CT: D --> Cease hitting your keys with your fingers at once  
TA: 2o normal me and my creepofetii2he2 are hell2 of acceptable iin all the re2pectable ciircle2 ever.  
CT: D --> Captor I am willing to over100k your puerile mockery of my difficulties in controlling my STRENGTH  
CT: D --> And your baseless accusations of mutation are just that  
TA: who the hell 2tiill actually u2e2 the word pueriile even.  
CT: D --> I a%ept that my perspiration problem w001d be a source of amusement among the ignorant and uncultured  
CT: D --> And that your views as a lowb100d w001d naturally clash with mine  
TA: no 2HIIT troll 2herlock.  
CT: D --> However  
CT: D --> I cannot and will not sit idly by as you mock and misrepresent my cultural tastes any longer  
TA: haha, what.  
CT: D --> For too long have I merely chalked it up to being surrounded by a gaggle of uncultured ignoramuses but I have grown sick and tired of letting your barbs pass by without comment and so I must assert this fa%t  
CT: D --> Nude art is not porn you uncultured ignoramus  
GC: 1 SUR3 4M GL4D 1 D1DNT 4CTU4LLY TUN3 OUT H1S BLU3 TH1S 1S GOLD  
AA: wow what brought this on  
CT: D --> I do not care if the thought of an e%posed phallus makes you giggle and titter like a little wiggler watching an informative movie on reprodu%ion for the first time in their life  
AA: no don't answer that i know what did but seriously  
GC: SOLLUX 1 B3L13V3 TH1S 1S WH4T TH3Y 1N TH3 OFF1C14L 4LT3RN14N V3RN4CUL4R C4LL 4 BURN  
TA: ooh, iit'2 on now.  
CT: D --> But I am under no obligation to endure your childish and wrong-headed mockery of an art form I highly respect  
CT: D --> Hereby I give you permission to laugh at it in the privacy of your respite block  
TA: riight now ii'm iin the priivacy of my re2piiteblock laughiing at the notiion that ii'd need your permii22iion for jack fuckiing 2hiit.  
CT: D --> But so help me if your infantile insults do not stop scrolling up this screen I will find a way to punch you via instant messaging if it'll require me to reassemble your mainframes into a robot arm from afar with nothing but the STRENGTH of my rage  
AA: ahaha oh wow  
TA: ii dunno, man, you 2tiill haven't 2aiid anythiing about whether you lube your robot2 wiith 2weat before you hump them, miight want to clariify that one before you try to knock me out by waviing your bulge at my 2iiliicomb2 from the other siide of the planet liike iit'2 one of ED'2 2hiitty wand2.  
AA: okay this is getting extremely silly  
GA: Should I Auspistice These Two  
TA: what.  
TA: fuck no, KN, thii2 just 2werved left 2traiight iinto no-no land.  
CT: D --> I appreciate the thought, Maryam  
CT: D --> In fact  
CT: D --> Maybe I sh001d interpret all of Captor's previous antagonistic statements as black solicitations  
TA: WHAT  
CT: D --> Oh Mister Captor I was not aware that your feelings for me ran so pitch  
TA: OH MY FUCKIING GOD NO.  
GC: 1S TH1S R34L L1FE? >:O  
GA: I Was Not Actually Being Serious This Is Very Sudden And Highly Unexpected  
TA: NO NO NO NO 2TOP EVERYTHIING.  
CT: D --> Shall I compare thee to a bright season's day  
AA: but kanaya only you can bring peace back to this chatroom  
TA: AA EVEN YOU.  
CT: D --> Awfully muggy and disgustingly runny  
CT: D --> Unbearably sunny  
GC: OH WHO W1LL S4V3 TH3 3ND4NG3R3D P3OPL3 OF TV-112-BO22?  
GA: I See It Seems I Have No Choice But To Comply To Your Heartfelt Requests  
CT: D --> Quiet now, I can feel the spirit of slam poetry channelling through me  
TA: oh my god are you gangiing up on me.  
TA: ii hate you all equally and platoniically.  
GC: 1 4M MOSTLY SURPR1S3D 3QU1US S33MS TO H4V3 D3V3LOPP3D 4 S3NS3 OF HUMOR WH3N W3 W3R3NT LOOK1NG  
CT: D --> Captor I am afraid this relationship is not going to work if you keep displaying such worrying unfaithful tendencies  
GA: Sollux You Go And Sit In That Corner  
GA: While Equius Sits In This Corner  
AA: swoon so effective  
GA: Do Not Make Me Bring Out The Pointy Paper Hats  
CT: D --> I demand a more scenic corner  
TA: ii'm goiing two hiide under thii2 table and never come out agaiin.  
TA: EVER.  
GA: There Is A High Possibility They Would Summon Eridan And Then This Would Turn Into A Veritable Clusterfuck  
GC: P3R1SH TH3 THOUGHT!  
CT: D --> I apologize  
CT: D --> However I seem to have hit the e%tent of my capacity for humorous diversion  
GC: 1TS OKAY, YOU H4V3 T4K3N GR34T STR1D3S 1N B31NG L3SS OF 4 BUTT  
CT: D --> I admit I have not been thinking clearly about Vantas' actual share of the blame  
CT: D --> But that doesn't mean he does not hold a measure of indirect responsibility   
CT: D --> And if he is not the true source of our current problems  
CT: D --> I w001d very much appreciate knowing who or what is  
TC: i feel you bro, all our pans are up and fogged with the  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING  
TC: fearfumes.  
TA: hey GZ.  
CT: D --> Highb100d  
TC: and the unsurety is like a shitty spell what takes away our abilities what to think of things.  
AA: feeling better?  
GC: H3Y G4MZ33  
TC: YEAH  
TC: i dug out some ice from the thingy  
TC: cold as shit but it gives me something to chew on at least.  
GA: Welcome Back  
TC: ANYWAY  
TC: the thing i'm up to getting at is that i'm not going to hold a fucker's worries against him  
TC: for sending his thoughts on out to this faraway treasure what your chest ticker is all of yearning to gather up in.  
TC: is like if your soul of souls is screaming up at you to wrap around that one precious little fucker and keep all the bad out then how is the thoughtvoice in your thinkpan supposed to get across all clear like, you get me?  
CT: D --> I  
CT: D --> Don't think I do  
TC: what i'm getting across is that i get you bro.  
TC: i threw my pies out the window and my ice hull up into a wall all from the pain of this sharp diamond  
TC: straight through my chest and up my throat  
GC: >:O!  
TC: screeching at me to do whatever however right the fuck now  
TC: to find him and save him   
TC: AND KILL EVERYONE WHO EVER TOUCHED HIM EVER.  
TC: it shakes you up to the core, don't it.  
TC: moirallegiance.  
TA: waiit, you mean you and KK are...?  
CT: D --> Oh  
GA: Am I Reading This Wrong Or Are You Implying That You And Karkat Are Now An Item  
CT: D --> Nepeta is going to be delighted  
TC: you fuckers got the know of it. :oD  
AA: im so glad for the both of you!  
GC: 1 DONT M34N TO B3 RUD3 BUT F1N4LLY!  
GC: WH3N D1D TH1S H4PP3N 4ND WH4T TOOK YOU GUYS SO LONG?  
TA: yeah man, you know iit wa2 bad when even the bliind giirl could 2ee iit comiing.  
TC: yeah, all you motherfuckers know it's forever been a thing that is.  
TC: it was only today that i done and put it on the table, so to be said.  
TC: made wordfull all the wordless things what was floating between us.  
TC: TOO BAD SOME MURDERFUCKERS CAME AND PUT A MOTHERFUCKING WALL ON THE WAY TO MY BRO'S ARMS.  
TC: so i'm going to climb that fucking wall  
TC: USING THEIR MOTHERFUCKING CARCASSES AS MY STEPPING BLOCK.

\--  twinArmaggedons [TA] is sending file "dafuqii2thii2.png" --

TC: braid a rope from their filthy guts.  
AA: we understand your feelings gamzee but please try not to fly off the handle when karkats not around

\--  twinArmaggedons [TA] is sending file "ohgodthi2ii22onotokay.png" --

TC: AND BUILD ME SOME BITCHFUCKING STAIRS FROM THEIR SKULLS.

\--  cuttlefishCuller [CC] has left "TV II2 BO22" --

\--  twinArmaggedons [TA] is sending file "whyarehii2eye2red.png" --

TC: fuck i get it, i'm not okay, you don't gotta take a bunch of spy pics of a bro to show them off, that ain't cool. :o(

\--  twinArmaggedons [TA] is sending file "arrtakethatkeyboard.gif" --

TC: HA HA FUCK.  
TC: that one is legit funny.   
GC: 1TS D3C1D3D, W3 N33D TO R3SCU3 K4RK4T 4S4P SO TH4T H3 M4Y 3X3RC1S3 H1S MO1R41L DUT13S UN3NCUMB3R3D BY 1MP3R14L THR34TS!  
AA: can we come up with a plan that does not put the whole lot of us in danger   
TC: to be true there ain't much for us what to do in regards with the rescuing he's in need of, now the threshers are out his hive.   
AA: can that be a thing that happens i would appreciate it  
GA: Wow How Did You Go From Happy Go Lucky Clown To Wild Mood Swinging Threatening Grisly Murder Clown  
CT: D --> This is merely who he is without the sopor's influence  
TC: he's got people what do rescuing for a way of living   
TC: WHO'D LINE UP TO MAKE A BRIDGE OF ASSES ON A SEA OF FIRE  
TC: for him to set his feet up on.  
TA: oh yeah man, the grey cultii2t2.  
GC: YOU H4V3 4 PO1NT >:[  
CT: D --> I congratulate him on returning to a state representative of the attitudes appropriate to his station  
TA: 2o iif you can tell u2 more about them and al2o the guy iin KK'2 hiive who'2 one of them, that'd be 2well.  
AA: equius im going to assume you do not mean it the way you said it otherwise ill have to dock all these brand new points you just earned  
TC: but it's on our motherfucking back to make the rescuing be a lasting thing and that's the why of my singing them   
TC: A MOTHERFUCKING SIREN SONG   
TC: to my doorstep.  
TC: HONK.  
GA: Not That This Isnt More In Line With Your Religion As It Is Usually Portrayed However If Previously Asked I Would Have Expected The Dynamics To Be Diametrically Opposite From What They Appear To Be  
TC: can my religion be a thing we never talk about ever again  
TC: BE HELLS OF THANKFUL FOR IT.  
GA: I Apologize I Did Not Mean To Cause Offense  
TC: never worry i just don't wanna  
CT: D --> I shall make a point of never bringing up that abominable mockery of highb100d behoovior again  
TC: right now  
AA: ...  
TC: yeah  
TC: motherfuck  
GC: >:?  
TA: he ju2t ran off, diidn't look two good.  
GA: Oh No What If The Threshecutioners Have Already Reached His Hive  
TA: wow, ii couldn't 2ee iit before but hii2 hiive ii2 a total me22.  
CT: D --> What if he has already battled the threshecutioner corps which has caused the defacement of his hive  
AA: no the timing is way off for that  
GC: H3 D1D S4Y H3 THR3W 4 T4NTRUM OF SORTS 1 TH1NK  
TA: ok, there he ii2.  
TA: you ok over there?  
GC: G4MZ33 W3 4R3 34S1LY 4L4RM3D BY SUDD3N MOV3M3NTS  
AA: gamzee are you currently under attack by a confused group of time-displaced threshecutioners  
GA: I Get It Theyre Not There  
TC: I JUST BARFED OUT ALL THE ICE I ATE :o(  
TC: and also my bilesack almost made it up my foodchute along with it :o(  
TC: IT'S LIKE ALL OF THE SUDDEN MY GUTS HATE AT EACH OTHER  
TC: and are playing at elbows on the backseat of my bellycar :o(  
GA: Did You Catch Something  
GC: 1TS TH3 SOPOR 1SNT 1T  
GC: OR L4CK OF 1T  
TC: WHATEVER  
TC: let's just talk other shit like how you guys were all up and wanting more knowage on the grey fuckers what stalk on karkat, i can do that, just gotta get the warn on that this is all karkat bitching about them though.  
TA: but KK biitche2 about everythiing.  
TC: haha, yeah, you got the truth on there.  
TC: like i already up and told you fuckers they were on the lookout for a little red wiggler and snapped him right up   
TC: SOON AS FIND HIM.  
TC: once they done that though it seems they were all a squabble over what to do with him.  
TC: SOME THOUGHT HE WAS TOO PRECIOUS TO SHARE WITH THE HARSH MOTHERFUCKING WORLD WHAT WE LIVE ON IN  
TC: only the ancestor had up and told them that sharing the good is spreading the good, you get me bro?  
TC: SO THESE OTHER GUYS WENT AND TOLD  
TC: we can't be going to up and be all  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING SELFISH  
TC: about it.  
TC: RIGHT?  
TC: in the end the biggest one decided that karkat should get to up and know the world   
TC: LIKE IT FUCKING IS  
TC: but that there was no bad in keeping a whole bunch of eyes from afar  
TC: TO GET THEIR STALKING ON LIKE USUAL  
TC: and having him visit them down in their caves every now and often so they could get their bask on.  
GC: C4V3S?  
GC: L1K3 N3P3T4?  
TC: THESE FUCKERS ARE MOTHERFUCKING SERIOUS ABOUT BEING UNDERGROUND.  
CT: D --> Please stop mentioning Nepeta in association to this highly illegal group  
CT: D --> It makes me irrationally nervous  
TC: no problem, bro.  
GC: WHOOPS  
GC: SORRY 4BOUT TH4T  
GA: We Will Keep It In Mind  
TC: ANYFUCKINGWAYS  
TC: they up and let karkat out at the world with the lusus what they bred to look after him so he could up and build his hive on his lonesome  
TC: AND THEN THEY ADDED THEM SECRET PATHS TO IT  
TC: going underground to where their hideouts and shortcuts and wallprophecies were at.  
TC: AND WHENEVER IT'S UP IN THEIR FANCY  
TC: they crawl up their paths to fetch him and drag him down to their big super secret hive  
TC: WHERE THEY KISS HIS FEET AND CRY ON HIS TOES AND BEG HIM TO CHANGE THE MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSE.  
TC: they dress him in matesprit red and drape him with rainbow beads and sing about how he'll reveal the hemospectrum as the  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING JOKE  
TC: what it is  
TC: BECAUSE HE'S THE LINK IN THE MIRACLE CHAIN  
TC: what turns the line  
TC: INTO A MOTHERFUCKING CIRCLE.  
TA: doe2 that even mean anythiing though, or ii2 iit all ju2t cultii2t p2eudo-phiilo2ophiical bull2hiit?  
TC: it means karkat can breath water, he's got gills what let him sink without drowning.  
CT: D --> That  
GC: >:O  
CT: D --> Is preposterous  
TA: well   
CT: D --> And impossible  
TA: okay ii 2ee how that could po22iibly maybe be kiind of a big deal DAMN.  
CT: D --> It must be a deception imposed by this cult  
CT: D --> I have seen him in pictures and he does not display the e%pected characteristics of a member of the seadweller castes  
GA: Did They Mutilate His Ears Because They Look Normal  
TC: YOU TELLING ME YOU EVER SAW HIM SHIRTLESS, MOTHERFUCKER?  
TC: because I have.  
TC: I GOT THAT KNOWING FIRST HAND WHEN HE DRAGGED ME OUT FROM DEATH IN THE SEA.  
TC: they be real as real is, bright motherfucking red gills all up and lining his little ribs.  
AA: you know some of my archaeological finds make a lot more sense now!  
TC: I AIN'T TRYING TO GET MY CONVINCE ON TO ANYBODY ABOUT THE REALNESS OF ALL THIS PIOUS MOTHERFUCKING NOISE NOR ANYTHING.  
TC: karkat doesn't buy it either, he thinks it all be made-up fairy tales from these sad mournful motherfuckers what saw a crazy mutation and built a bajillion thousand fucking years of hopeful sandcastles on top of it.  
TC: BUT NOBODY'S HEARING NONE OF THAT.  
TC: not the believers and not the empire.  
TC: AND WHEN HE GOT IN THE WATER TO FIND ME MY DISAPPEARASS LUSUS ONE NIGHT  
TC: he got his fear on of some other motherfucker what might or might have not been flitting around in the shadows where he couldn't be right up and seeing  
TC: WELL IT TURNS OUT THE FUCKER WAS REAL  
TC: dumbass probably flagged up a culling drone about this icky mutant neighbor what had gills but no fins  
TC: AND THE NEWS SOMEHOW CLIMBED UP THE FOOD CHAIN UNTIL IT HIT SOMEONE WHO KNEW WHAT IT MEANT.  
TC: fucker's probably dead by now, just knowing you can have a mix of sea and landdweller is hells of censored.  
TC: THE THRESHERS WERE PROBABLY TOLD TO CULL ANYONE WHAT EVER COULD OF LAID EYES ON HIM TOO  
TC: probably not knowing they'd be up and culled too when they were done.  
TA: ...we are 2O FUCKED.  
TC: WHICH'S WHY I CALLED UP THOSE FUCKERS.  
TC: i'mma kill the shit out of them  
TC: AND DITCH THIS HIVE.  
GC: Y3S TH1S 1S 4LL V3RY WORR1SOME BUT  
TC: there ain't nothing for me here no more, i'm finding my bro and there ain't nothing gonna stand between us two when i'm there.  
GC: 4R4D14  
GA: Does That Mean You Intend To Join The Cult  
GC: 1 C4NT H3LP B31NG CUR1OUS 4BOUT WH4T YOU M34NT BY 4RCH43LOG1C4L F1NDS  
TA: hehe ii gue22 tho2e mural2 you kept takiing piic2 of are actually about KK'2 ance2tor or 2omethiing.  
GC: YOU M34N YOU FOUND 3V1D3NC3 OF TH1S CULTS 3X1ST3NC3 B3C4US3 1F SO TH3N WH4T GU4R4NT33S DO W3 H4V3 TH4T OTH3RS H4V3NT 4S W3LL 4ND TH4T K4RK4TS UND3RGROUND S4F3HOUS3 W1LL ST1LL B3 TH3R3 TOMORROW?  
AA: yes to sollux  
AA: as for the cultists safety  
TC: IT'LL ALL BE THERE BECAUSE I'LL KILL ANY MOTHERFUCKER WHAT TRIES ANYTHING FUNNY TO IT.  
AA: in my experience the murals that relate to them arent actually that easily decipherable  
AA: in fact im pretty sure deciphering them is part of their entrance trials  
GC: OOH F4SC1N4T1NG  
AA: like a way of making sure only the more motivated ones make it to their hideouts  
AA: most young trolls to go as far as seeking their location in the first place are in need of help and therefore prime convert material  
AA: a planetbound adult would be motivated by self-interest to maintain their secret if he or she even bothers to investigate at all  
AA: i suppose a spy could try and infiltrate the group but considering its been around this long i think if there were any they ended up embracing the cult for real eventually  
CT: D --> How do you not find that notion terrifying  
TA: waiit waiit  
AA: and if they operate in cells then finding one wouldnt help finding the others  
AA: anyway i think the fact that the murals are still around at all means whatever their security measures consist of are largely successful  
TA: okay thii2 ii2 all really iintere2tiing but how do you fiigure out all thii2 2tuff from a bunch of old wall 2crawl2?  
AA: oh well ive run across a couple of guys in my digs  
AA: some of them showed signs of restoration work so theres that too  
TA: waiit WHAT  
CT: D --> Megido  
AA: dont act so surprised ive told you about them before!  
CT: D --> I expected better from you  
TA: no that can't be riight ii don't remember any of that 2hiit and tru2t me ii'd remember fliippiing all my 2hiit2 iif ii ever heard about that.  
AA: you were probably in one of your manic code binges  
AA: and you never told me about your dorsata thing either so there!  
TA: ugh, 2hiit, ii'm 2orry about that okay.  
GC: TH1S CONV3RS4T1ON 1S ST4RT1NG TO SM3LL L1K3 OLD L4UNDRY >:[  
TA: iin hiind2iight ii really 2hould have, ii'm not 2ure why ii diidn't, ii'm 2uch a dumba22.  
AA: you know it now and i know it now so lets drop this before we veer off topic   
AA: yes this is no place to air laundry sollux well handle this later  
AA: but really they just said hello and sat there quietly   
AA: they werent even adults like your dorsata guy  
AA: when i talked to them they were calm and polite and open to talking about the paintings though in hindsight they were mostly being vague and leading so   
GA: Maybe They Were Sentries  
AA: yes maybe  
AA: i wonder if they werent waiting for some sort of password from me actually  
AA: actually if i think of those conversations as one-sided cult code talk that makes a scary amount of sense  
AA: actually  
AA: so many actuallys  
AA: but really once it turned out i wasnt responding in their code or giving them their password they should have dropped it unless  
GC: H3Y 1F YOU R3M3MB3R 4NYTH1NG SP3C1F1C 4BOUT TH3S3 CONVOS   
AA: they were giving me hints?  
GC: C4N YOU T3LL M3 L4T3R 1T M1GHT B3 R3L3V4NT TO MY 1NT3R3STS  
AA: or maybe they just wanted to talk about tempera and flower-derived paints i dunno  
AA: but hey at least they werent being pushy about converting me i guess!  
AA: anyway tavros should be safe if he runs into one of them  
AA: and sure thing  
GA: Gamzee Do You Know Anything About These Sentries And Their Methods  
TC: nah, my bro never up and bitched at me about these fuckers, probably never met them even.  
TC: HE KNOWS ALL THEM SECRET PATHS SO BYPASSING ANNOYANCES WAS JUST A THING HE DID ALL NATURAL LIKE.  
TA: that 2ure explaiin2 how he managed to go to TV's and back 2o often 2o ea2iily.  
GC: 3QU1US 1M SURPR1S3D YOUR3 NOT M4K1NG TH4T MUCH NO1S3 4BOUT TH1S  
GC: NOT TH4T 1T 1SNT N1C3 BUT 1TS 4LSO K1ND OF WORRY1NG  
GA: I Wasn't Going To Comment But I Did Also Take Notice Of It  
TA: ehehe ii hadn't notiiced but iit'2 true ii gue22.  
TA: worldviiew rocked much?  
GA: Are You Seriously Trying To Provoke Him Again  
TA: AAUUGGHH II'LL JU2T 2HUT UP FOREVER.  
CT: D --> Oh  
CT: D --> No  
GC: >:?  
CT: D --> It is true that I am currently attempting to put my thoughts in order with only moderate su%ess  
CT: D --> But not to the point of mistaking a perfectly a%eptable display of platonic animosity for a solicitation  
CT: D --> And I believe Maryam was merely engaging in what is widely known in some circles as "friendly ribbing"  
CT: D --> You may rest assured that I am not likely to misinterpret any further displays, for humorous purposes or otherwise  
TA: 2tiill ain't touchiing thii2 bro.  
GC: HUH  
GC: TH1S SUR3 1S D1FF3R3NT COM1NG FROM YOU  
TA: what, me backiing off or hiim beiing rea2onable?  
GC: BOTH 1 GU3SS  
GA: Both  
TA: fuck you both.  
CT: D --> I will assume these are also humorous attempts at "friendly ribbing"  
CT: D --> Regardless I am relieved to know that Vantas regards the absurd role he has been forced into with due suspicion  
CT: D --> And that he appears aware of the fact that he is a genetic aberration, albeit a highly fun%ional one  
TC: bro if you gonna talk that motherfuckin talk don't do it where i'll read it.  
CT: D --> On the other hand the fact that he is able to fun%ion underwater is a STRONG moral blow against seadweller supremacy  
CT: D --> And c001d eventually serve as a weapon to undermine their rule  
CT: D --> That is undoubtedly part of the long-term plans of this "cult"'s governing body  
CT: D --> As such I find that the entire movement has become slightly less unpalatable  
TA: oh my god.  
CT: D --> Rather than an insane group espousing an insane cause they are merely an ancient political fa%ion making a display of embracing lowb100d values in e%change for their cooperation  
CT: D --> I do admit it puts Vantas in an e%tremely delicate position however  
TC: GOOD FOR YOU.  
GA: An Even More Delicate Position Than If These Shadowy Conspirators Were Sincere In Their Worship  
GC: Y34H 1 TH1NK 1 WOULD MUCH R4TH3R K4RK4T W4S L3G1T1M4T3LY 4 SP3C14L M4G1C4L SNOWFL4K3 TH3Y W3R3 UN1RON1C 4BOUT  
GA: Certainly They Would Be Less Likely To Treat Him Like A Disposable Tool In Such A Case  
GA: What Is A Snowflake  
GC: OH 1TS 4 M1CROSCOP1C FR4CT4L M4D3 OF 1C3 OR SOM3TH1NG  
TA: fuck 2nowflake2, we gotta fiigure out what these cultii2t2 are really about and  
TA: ii wa2 goiing two 2ay "re2cue KK" but fuck iif ii know how we'd even go about iit.  
TC: pretty sure at least half the top guys are as sincere as can all of be, and karkat says the big boss is a sensible motherfucker so there's that.  
CT: D --> Perhaps i sh001d point out that for as long as Vantas is of use to their fa%ion they are not likely to cause him physical harm  
TC: NOT TO SAY I WON'T BE UP TO MAKING MY VERY OWN PERSONAL MOTHERFUCKING INSPECTION IN TIME EVENTUAL.  
CT: D --> And thus as previously determined their hideout remains the safest place for him  
CT: D --> I certainly do not intend to take part in any harebrained rescue attempts  
AA: okay i was browsing through my pictures folder to show you guys some of the cult frescoes and found a really interesting one  
CT: D --> Though I am not adverse to providing mechanical t001s sh001d the need arise  
AA: extremely interesting in fact  
AA: mind-boggingly so id say  
TA: ju2t 2top buiildiing up fal2e 2u2pen2e and 2end them already.  
GC: M4K3 SUR3 TO BLOW TH3 COLORS SO 1 C4N C4TCH TH3 D3T41LS  
AA: i was doing that when i found this gem  
AA: the originals were a little faded so i didnt notice  
AA: but with the colors blown  
AA: well youll see

\--  apocalypseArisen [AA] is sending file "[SDCIC_413604.jpg](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/11767631/cultstuck_images/aradiapics/SDCIC_413604.jpg)" --

AA: my current theory is that this is an ancient abandoned temple and/or hideout  
AA: apparently it was subjected to some natural disaster because it shows no signs of fire or weapons and has only a couple of corpses  
AA: its surprisingly well-preserved whichs why the colors are not completely lost  
TC: can i up and sit this one out, the colors hurt :o(  
TA: holy fuckiing 2hiit the body iin the corner  
AA: yes isnt it interesting!  
AA: it was like that when i found this place  
TC: WAIT WHERE THE MOTHERFUCK IS THIS BODY  
GA: Its Really Beautiful The Decoration Is Very Harmonious  
GC: ON TH3 TOP R1GHT CORN3R OF TH3 FLOOR  
AA: and i found it after an earthquake and a rockslide unblocked a tunnel so i dont think its been tampered with  
AA: the guy really did just lie down for a nap then died  
AA: the other two i found in another room were hugging  
AA: maybe they were moirails  
AA: anyway heres a close up of one of the murals which i think is going to blow everyones minds away  
AA: since nobody seems to have noticed the interesting detail so far  
GC: OH 1 H4V3 >:]  
TA: what iintere2tiing detaiil, all ii 2ee ii2 KK'2 2ymbol all over the place plu2 2ome geometry and liitle cartoon2.  
TA: how many people had two diie for all the2e colors? ooh ii forgot, they make colors from flower2 and 2tuff, what a load of hoofbea2t2hiit.  
GC: WH3N YOU S33 1T YOUR3 GONN4 SH1T BU1LD1NG UN1TS

\--  apocalypseArisen [AA] is sending file "[SDCIC_413612.jpg](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/11767631/cultstuck_images/aradiapics/SDCIC_413612.jpg)" --

TA: okay iit'2 KK'2 ance2tor biitchiing at tho2e three 2tooges holdiing iinvii2iible trays while beiing tortured, ii gue22 iit doe2 look liike hiim 2orta. 

\--  centaursTesticle [CT] 's computer has been punched through! --

GA: Holy Shit  
GA: And I Think He Saw It Too  
GC: HOLY SH1T 1S QU1TE TH3 4PROPOS 3P1TH3T TO US3 1N TH1S C4S3  
TC: fiine, ii am goiing two 2tare at thii2 overexpo2ed mon2tro2iity for a liitle longer and hope ii have whatever 2ort of revelatiion you guy2 ju2t had.  
TC: wow this be all kinds of novelty to me, not anything my bro ever told me none about.  
GA: Yes I Cant Help But Wonder Why Karkat Never Brought This Up   
GA: Though Considering We Have Never Met In Person I Suppose At Least In My Case It Would Be Easy To Disguise Any Reaction Upon Looking At The One Picture I Sent Him  
AA: actually the answer for that question is pretty simple!  
AA: let me dig up some other pictures  
TA: HOLY FUCKIING 2HIIT THAT'2 MY 2YMBOL AND MY HORNS ON THAT GUY.  
TA: OH MY FUCKIING GOD.  
GC: TOLD YOU YOU'D SH1T BU1LD1NG UN1TS >:]  
TA: HE LOOK2 LIIKE ME AND II LOOK LIIKE HIIM AND II THIINK MAYBE WE ARE RELATED?  
GA: That Certainly Puts Your Anecdote About The Crying Adult From The Illegal Hardware Store In Perspective  
GA: From This Image It Appears Your Look Alike Is Engaging In Some Heavy Mourning Of Karkat's Ancestor  
GA: Which Would Certainly Make Him At Least A Positively Regarded Figure In The Movement  
GA: As Well As My Look Alike I Suppose  
GC: JUST C4LL TH3M 4NC3STORS 4LR34DY TH4TS WH4T TH3Y OBV1OUSLY 4R3  
GA: But Anyway You Just Strolled Into His Store Being All Look Alikey So To Say  
GA: He Probably Thought Some Major Destiny Thing Was Unfolding In Front Of His Eyes  
TA: holy 2hiit, there'2 a guy who may or may not have been my fuckiing ance2tor and tho2e dude2 actually know about hiim.  
TA: ii'm kiind of freakiing out hardcore riight now.  
TA: freakiing out dor2ata guy 2tyle.  
TA: counter dude really had hii2 2hiit twogether, ii'm iimpre22ed.   
TA: holy 2hiit.  
AA: dont bless your worshipper just yet mister religious figure!

\--  apocalypseArisen [AA] is sending file "[early_modern_period.png](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/11767631/cultstuck_images/aradiapics/early_modern_period.png)" --

AA: it seems their art style shifted heavily towards abstract ornamentation at some point  
AA: theyre probably unrecognizable by now  
GA: My God  
GA: That Is Utterly Gorgeous  
GA: Look At That Knotwork I Am So Making Myself A Dress Like That  
TA: why am ii a black fuckiing 2hadow?  
GA: Please Tell Me You Have Other Pictures In That Style  
TA: ii mean not me, my ance2tor, holy 2hiit thii2 me22ed my head up really hard.  
AA: ill just clean the best ones up and send you a compressed file  
GC: WH4T 4 T4NGL3 OF D3L1C1OUS COLORS  
TA: tangle ii2 riight, my 2iign ii2 unreadable.  
TA: ii 2ee what you mean now, AA, counter dude wa2 totally fuckiing cluele22.  
TA: and KK two, iif he'2 2urrounded by thii2 2hiit.  
TA: dor2ata guy knew, though. wow what doe2 iit all MEAN ii giive up.  
TC: THAT'S SOME PRETTIFIED MOTHERFUCKIN SHIT BUT I CAN'T KEEP MY STARE ON AT IT NO MORE.  
TC: not on at these motherfucking letters either, it's just all swimming overbright style.  
GC: 1D S4Y GO T4K3 4 N4P BUT TH1S 1S L1T3R4LLY TH3 WORST POSS1BL3 T1M3 FOR ON3 SO  
TC: NAH SIS  
TC: i've got a date with the threshers what to be readying myself up on for. :o)  
TA: be careful wiith tho2e fuckers, man.  
GA: Good Luck  
AA: i still think engaging them is the dumbest thing you could do right now but at this point im just way past caring  
AA: just try not to lose karkat his moirail so soon after he got one  
TC: WILL DO.

\--  terminallyCapricious [TC] has left "TV II2 BO22" --

TA: okay ii need two go hiide iin my coon and diige2t all thii2 2hiit ii've ju2t been fed.  
TA: and then maybe 2ee iif ii can't fiind 2ome 2hiit on them onliine.  
TA: a databa2e two hack or anythiing liike that.  
GC: YOU GO DO TH4T  
GC: WH1L3 4R4D14 G1V3S M3 3V3RYTH1NG SH3'S GOT ON TH3M  
GC: 1V3 GOT 4N 1LL3G4L CULT TO 1NV3ST1G4T3!  
AA: you sure about that?  
GC: 1M 4 POOR BL1ND G1RL   
GC: 1 N33D 4LL TH3 H3LP 1 C4N G3T >:]  
GA: I Guess Ill Just Sit Here Consumed By Lust Staring At My Ancestors Gorgeous Abstractly Ornamented Gown  
GA: Do Keep Me Posted Though  
AA: yeah i think ill just keep this chat open for general situation updating purposes

\--  caligulasAquarium [CA] is no longer idle --

AA: maybe try to get those other doofuses back in here  
AA: oh look whos back  
TA: hey.  
CA: i'm not actually back this is just a status update  
CA: still freakin out  
CA: but i ovvercame the blubberin stage an noww i'm just in standard baseline freakin out mode  
CA: i'll catch up wwith the info later i can't do this shit noww i'm sorry  
CA: later  
TA: well fuck.  
TA: maybe for the be2t though, what wiith all the freakiing out we've been doiing.  
TA: and wiith that ii'm gone two, see you guy2 whenever and try not two diie and 2tuff.  
AA: see you  
GA: See You  
GC: S33 YOU WH3N3V3R, M4YB3

\--  caligulasAquarium [CA] is idle --

\--  twinArmageddons [TA] is idle --

GC: 1 JUST NOT1C3D F3F3R1 1S OFFL1N3  
AA: im reasonably sure eridan would be freaking out much harder if anything suspicious had happened to her  
GC: TRU3 TH4T

\--  grimAuxiliatrix [GA] is idle --

\--  gallowsCallibrator [GC] has left "TV II2 BO22" --


	16. > Gamzee: auspisticize your incoming guests

The horizon is this vast evil sopor-green stain spread sloppy as anything on the line between sea and sky, like someone up and leaked their recuperacoon all over everyone else's nice clean scenery. It's evil, glaring, stabby and acid, and for as long as you sit at your doorstep you up and glue your eyes to it, revelling in the briny breeze and the straining motherfucking headache the light gives you, embracing the roar of the crashing waves and these bitching withdrawal aches as your righteous punishment for allowing shit to hit the fan this bad.

You should have never let Karkat go swimming. You should have gone to his hive instead of him to yours. You know there's no point in this mental whining but being self-flagellating is amusing and you're bored. You should have killed all sea dwellers. You should have killed— what's this sound.

Crunching sand is a noise as familiar to you as the roaring surf, but you've never heard so much of it so loud before. You turn your eyes away from the burning green, and a bright red afterburn stain follows your focus like a reminder of what's at stake, tinting the approaching figures like they're cutting through a pink haze.

They're closer than you thought. There's a hissing in your ears you hadn't noticed over the crashing waves.

It's just a handful of threshies, not any kinds of impressive shit like you'd been expecting. They're all nearly full grown, some stretchy-gangly, some funny bulky, all of them sauntering up without any try at stealth, smirking, slouching and swinging their shoulders like they think they got the patent on swag. Not one of them seems to know the right way to walk on sand, and though most of the group is threading past the tide-line where the footing is firmer they just keep looking surprised when a wave laps at their threshie twirl-shoes. What a hilarious bunch.

You don't even need your hoodoos to recognize the square-shaped blueblood riding at the front, all smirky smarmy self-assurance up on the back of his six-legged steed-lusus. He looks like he can't wait to gloat at some helpless piss-leaking brat. 

You snap a picture from your palmhusk as a treat to your strongbro. He probably wouldn't much like if you took one _after_  you're done with the lot.

They climb the sand up to your house, so slow and awkward that if you stood up and got your abscond on it'd be four to one that you could escape the whole lot of them, lusus included, so long as no one knew how to shoot. Still, you hold your butt in place and school your face as placid as any, watching their gait and the stoop of their shoulders as they strut past the red haze and into the green blur of the moon, like a bunch of motherfucking invaders breaking through the protective Karkat-halo what used to surround your life.

The boss clops up to the front, and the threshies behind him shuffle and fan out and back into something that only sort of resembles a perimeter, standing around in mildly threatening poses like a truculent gang of oversized gnomes the likes of which not even Tavros would up and care to adorn his lawn ring with. 

Bossman smirks down at you from his lusus' back, a forced expression of non-hostile contempt that can't even hide his wigglerish glee. You can tell he wants to fuck with your head a little before making some grand plot-twist out of his dumbass ruse, so you decide you might as well preempt that bullshit and show him how a professional mind-screwing is _done_.

You unfold your body, little by little, the stiff cords in your arms and legs straining and pulling, knots tightening, joints creaking, tendons heaving your limbs up like old faulty machinery. You apply your mental face-paint, school your front into a sedate smiling mask as you raise it up to stare into his eyes through your tired heavy lids; his douchey sneer wavers a little, and you belatedly remember that you clawed your scalp a couple hours ago and your hair is probably clotted purple all over.

But hey, that'll be just extra smoke and mirrors to your freak show. 

"What done you took so motherfuckin' long, my sweet diamond-bro," you rasp out, twirl a club, all nice and calm. There's just a faraway tired ache in your arm, good. "Got my wait on for hours."

The disconcerted grimace on his face lingers for a couple seconds, shifts to petulant anger, twitches into a sorry attempt at victorious sneer. It's like watching a continental drift of emotions, like an Eridan made of geologies with an extra heaping of stupid pasted on.

"It appears you have caught on to your situation fairly quickly—" he intones, all dignified authority, but you ain't waiting around for his shit, this is your show.

"Looks like you up and got some miraculous change going all up on your motherfucking self," you sing out, but your voice goes hoarse and your chest rattles; you cough on the back of your throat, spit out a gob of gunk, takes a few stumbling steps forward. "But I can't up and say I'm down with your new style, it smacks up on of some outrageous douchelordness right there."

He tries to talk when you pause to breathe. "Under Imperial orders—"

"And what the motherfuck is up with your new writing way, my bro, it makes you sound all like some dumbass fucker what got a hold of your machine what to spy on shit and who tried to chat a moirail up without ever even trying to learn how to up and motherfucking pass for your own old self, the fuck was even up with that?" your laughter clicks in your burning throat, as dismissive and contemptuous as her own motherfucking Condescension herself.

"What?" the threshie says, and his face does a lot of mixed up geology as his thinkpan tries to parse your words. Behind him, glances are exchanged. A teal snickers. They won't dance as a group when the grief starts going, and that's just as well.

You twirl your club again, widen your grin in a display so obvious not even this dumb ass fucker could misunderstand it. "Am I gonna have to _pap a bitch?_ " 

" _You will be culled and so will be everyone you know!_ " he snarls, all dignified offense, and you take it as your cue to whip your throwing arm and let your club loose at the fucker. 

It flies off your hand with a righteous motherfucking snap of air, but your aim is so off it skins the paint off his shoulder pad and instead nails some poor sod standing behind him with a nasty-ass crunch. Fucker slaps the sand with his back and sprays green everywhere, and your club twirls an arc in the air and beans some other surprised fucker on the head like _poc_.

Your honking laughter catches even you by surprise, breaking through their shocked stillness just like your club broke into the churning sea with a mundane _splop_. Weapons are pulled, fangs are displayed; Bossman just stares at the green mess on the sand, the dumb fucker, and if you were any sure of your other arm you'd have flown your other club into his skull right then and there.

Instead you allow him to have his gander on at his own pace, and to turn his head back around to you with all the motherfucking dramatic slowness in the galaxy.

"You'll regret ever crawling out of the caves, wiggler," he says, theatrically low. Probably took his sweet time craning his neck back so he could think up this whopper.

"I don't see myself doing no such thing, motherfucker," you say, trying to grab another club. Your strife deck is empty, though; looks like you only had the two in it. Are the others in your sylladex? You can't even fucking remember.

"And why not?" says Bossman, his lusus shuffling forward as he lowers the blade of a sickle-tipped spear in your general direction. The gesture looks rehearsed, with a shitty-historical-drama sort of fakeness to it, and it makes you think of a dumber, second-rate Eridan all over again. 

You change your club to your other hand and mentally brace yourself. "'Cause you fuckers _need_ me," you say.

And on that cue, you grit your teeth and focus on the well-ventilated thoughtglob behind his eyes, plant the tiniest motherfucking seed of unease in his fertile little mind-soil. Behind your own, though, a flower of pain blooms sharp and hot spreading needle petals into your pan; you squeeze the handle of your club tighter and make sure none of that showed up in your face.

He freezes on his saddle, his face shuffling through different grimaces while his mind grasps around for a suitably impressive retort — even as it supplies him with what he _thinks_  is the full extent of his folly. 

You retreat before the sting in your eyes turns to tears. Stupid fucking headache, stupid fucking sopor.

"I know why you went and got your type on with our lot," you continue, as soon as his confused face starts turning into fake smugness. It shifts right back into confused. "You fuckers got your first ever adult mission, right? Find and cull this brat and anyone what ever might've got their ganderbulbs up at him, so motherfucking easy. But he wasn't sitting quiet in his hive when you got at it, _noooo_." You step further into the group. "And your bosses won't up and take your motherfucking word for mission done, will they? They want a motherfucking _token_ , am I right?" You toss your club up, and make a quick glancing account of the other invaders while they track the pinwheeling weapon as it dances above your head. "And you'll never get it if you don't treat me right, my invertebrothers."

Your club flaps down in front of your face, and you snap it out of the air with a speed that's not quite under your control, your fingers closing awkwardly a little off of the handle. You sneer before you even notice. This is no good, you're so fucking off today. 

Bossman rears back a little when you glance at him, his lusus raising a dainty hoof as it leans away, and it's so ridiculous you find your gabflaps widening back into a grin. Just as ridiculous is the way Bossman valiantly and visibly rallies his wits.

"Are you doubting our abilities in making you squeal like an _oinkbeast_?" he says, and his dramatic intonation is just a little bit warbly.

"Hell if that's not _exactly_  what I'm up and doing right the fuck now," you shoot back, and something pounces at you from the corner of your eye — a cerulean, sickle in hand, his face twisted. 

You step away from his swipe, crouch under a sloppy fist, and it feels like your thinkpan is lagging behind when you move. You remember practice with Karkat and the way he made it all look so fucking light and soft, but this motherfucker is heavy and flaily and _off_  and can't find his footing in the sand. You kick some at his face, then kick his legs from under him, and when his head comes down you club it for good measure; your arm is heavier than you meant it to be, and his skull gives in like an overripe fruit, spraying blue all over you.

You turn around with a swipe of your club as soon as you hear the sand crunch at your back. Something snaps, someone screams; teal droplets float in front of your eyes as the guy grabs at the splinter of bone poking out of his arm. You club his knee as well, swing at his forehead, leap over his body before he's even done falling, bring out your sylladex and pray for another club as it shuffles and blinks at the corner of your eye.

A sickle flies in from the side, and you bat it out of the air without turning to look; your joints scrape together, and you can't hide a wince when your feet hit the sand, your calves turning into knots when you crouch under a sweeping blade. They just don't move like Karkat at _all_ , and it's throwing you off, this is taking all your concentration, where the hell is your _club?_

Something pops off your sylladex like the lid of a shaken faygo, slapping a distant threshie on the face with a _clang_  and a spray of bright acid green, and you seriously can't believe you still had a sopor pie on you, that was _perfect fucking timing_ —

You fall on your ass and laugh the hardest you've ever laughed. No one even up and attacks while you do, which somehow makes the whole fucking thing funnier, like— what are you even worried about, why are you all of taking this whole thing so motherfucking _seriously?_  These fuckers are so easily confused, Bossman himself outright had a motherfucking script in on his head he was all up and trying to follow, trying to make this thing his own personal flarp game while his cronies just flailed around using shitty TV threshing—

And just look at motherfucking _you_ , all trying to up and dig a motherfucking club out of your deck when these motherfuckers were outright _throwing their weapons at you_. You're just kicking back all sorts of stupidity like it's the choicest faygo tonight, aren't you? 

You rest your elbows on your knees and shake your head at yourself. Are you afraid of losing control? Are you trying to show off? Is there even anyone in this bunch of jokers you'd have a care to keep around, and what even the motherfuck for? To sing your praises? Is this a question of _pride?_  

Are you too _proud_  for sloppy and dirty?

You stand back up, dust the sand off your backside. Bossman points his shaky sicklespear at you, but you just raise a finger in an unvoiced request, look around yourself until you find the closest corpse. It's the cerulean one, and just as you expected it's lying on bluish sand, a sickle, and a couple dropped specibus cards.

They just stare as you crouch by the body, like there's even anything anyone would poke around a corpse for other than loot. Is this a flarp thing? Like some sort of flartiquette that says you don't attack during looting? Fuck if you give a shit. You get a low-rate army sickle, a sicklekind abstratus and a fistkind abstratus. Time to get serious, and by serious you mean _time for hilarity_.

You kick down at the sand, flashstepping away without caring where you'll land. When your momentum bleeds away you're standing on a spray of shallow water; a cloud of dust and sand is settling down on the corpse you just looted, and by your side, an olive threshie stares at you open mouthed. 

You don't bother with him. Straight in front of you is the lusus' white rump, which is just too great to pass up. 

You aim at that rump and flashstep again; this time the sickle buries itself halfway up that white ass, and indigo sprays all over your arm and face as it tries to kick back. You snap away, ears popping and skull squeezing in and the world blurring around you, and then come to a painful and sudden stop against the wall of your hive, forehead first.

You stumble back and turn around in a daze, blinking at the the colors you just spilled in the sand. The lusus is making a huge mess, screaming and kicking its legs in limping confusion until it collapses, baying in sobs; Bossman drops his weapon like a dumbass, hugs the curving neck in wigglerish distress. One of the threshies actually puts her hands to her head. Another is coming at you.

Your wild club swing connects to his neck, and you grab his sickle from midair as he falls, focus on the lusus as the beach blurs around you once again. Bossman is picking his sicklespear back up, and the look on his face is entirely genuine rage for once, but you pass him by and instead slash the lusus' head clean off. 

Nobody can call you merciless. 

When your dragging feet dig into the sand there's already a sickle flying at you, and you roll away and let it smack straight into the one sneaking at your back. You're still stumbling back to your feet when Bossman comes at you from above, dude can jump, his sicklespear aimed straight down. You kick away on automatic, but suddenly your collar is choking you, something is pulling you back from the back of your shirt; gravity is momentarily reversed and you can only twist your back and curl into a ball and there's a sudden draft down your spine before you splash into the shallow waves.

You shake your head and sputter out water, and spot part of your shirt still hooked into Bossman's sicklespear. He hardly pauses, all pretense up and motherfucking gone, and you respect that, appreciate the fuck out of his next leap, his weapon aiming right to the top of your head. You kick the water from under you, splash right up and at him, your own sickle poised and primed to hook and open him straight up from the bottom — which it does, groin to neck, bending armor and rending flesh with the help of his own weight and speed.

The sickle gets yanked out of your hand, and you look down and watch as Bossman turns into the air like a fluttering rag, limbs turned every which way, and splashes into the shallow water with your sickle still hooked under his jaw.

Your feet squelch on his body when you land, raising an indigo plume in the water. He thrashes under you, the handle of your sickle waving back and forth like a weird snorkel dancing amid blue churning bubbles, and you paw around underwater until your fingers find his weapon before jumping off him and stumbling to the shore, your head swishing drunk even though you're sober as fuck.

Your stunts are catching up to you, and you feel dizzy and heavy with muscle pain. The two threshies you avoided are back on their feet and standing on your way and you're so not up to this bullshit, you're so going to fuck their shit up and dance on their guts, you're tired and sick of everything. When they stop focusing on you you take the time to breathe a couple deep breaths, and when they go slack-jawed you guess Bossman just got back to his feet.

You point your new sicklespear at them before stepping aside just enough to turn your head back. Yep. There he is, standing in a growing cloud of his own blue swill, sickle hooked under his jaw, chest protector bent upwards, the side of his belly open with some glistening stuff bulging out which you guess are his guts. He's frothing blue, and the sickle's handle crosses his face in a vaguely hilarious way. He yanks it out, eyes bulging out in fury or pain, maybe; and then he decaptchalogues a spear, an actual one, tip long and straight and wicked.

You turn back to the other two, who seem to have recovered their wits and are now running into the hardened sand — running, not jumping, you guess they learned their lesson. You block a swipe with your sicklespear's handle, twist it up to catch another, whip it into their stomachs before swinging it around to catch Bossman's jab. He's wobbly on his feet, but persistent; it takes you a few more blocks before you can gather enough footing and wits to kick more sand at him, as much wet sand as hard as you can at the glistening innards poking out of his guts. You turn around to swipe at one of the clowns at your back; they're clearly not nearly as into the fight as Bossman currently is.

You climb up slowly, water lapping at your feet, and hook one of their sickles straight out of a guy's hand, whip it up and captchalogue it before hooking your tip around its owner's neck and giving a sharp tug. The head doesn't fall or anything, but the cut is deep enough to spray teal into her companion's eyes; the air snaps behind you and you jump aside on pure instinct, a blade cutting shallow on your side, and when you turn around to hook and pull your sicklespear is blocked by Boss' spear.

You swipe and jab at him as fast as you can go, but he blocks everything you throw. He's definitely spear-trained; the awkward thing in your hands isn't even recognized by your looted sicklekind abstratus. But even though you're weak and achy and dizzy and thirsty and chilly, you have an undeniable advantage in not being in the middle of bleeding out your own guts. 

The waves hit your sneakers over and over as you slowly push him back into the water. A bigger surge hits the back of his knees, and you jump over it as he stumbles and nearly falls back. That's all the advantage you need; you turn the curved tip towards him and slash at his neck with all the speed and strength you can gather in both your arms. The spray of blood is sudden, wide and short-lived, and he finally sags into the foam.

You duck and roll out of the way of another flying sickle, turn back to the remaining threshie, whip the blade at his heel, and he falls down with a strangled scream and a spray of olive, his calf bunching up into a disturbing knot. You jump on his stomach, aim the blunt tip of your weapon at his neck, but he's shaking his head desperately, sort of tangling his fingers up toward you—

His shaky fingers eventually resolve into a shape, a particular shape you know by heart.

And just like that, the fight bleeds all out of you, and you're left nothing but a shaky tired mess.

Very carefully, you set the blunt tip into the sand, and use it as a crutch as you step down from him. You know who this is— this is the one who recognized Karkat's sign but stayed quiet, the one who wasn't so much a spy as a newcomer who knew he was in over his head. You'll tentatively qualify him as harmless; there's other stuff to be done before dealing with him anyway. 

The waves have rolled Bossman's spear up the beach, and you grab it and toss it up away from the water along with your own before wading in. You spot his thresh captain booties as the water retreats, and from there you manage to drag him up a little ways out of the sea, enough not to be dragged back under. You dig up his sylladex, and by chance the waves bring you a very wet spearkind like it's some sort of apology. 

You proceed to loot weapons and money and kind abstrata out of the other bodies, finishing the job on anyone still breathing. There's a fuckton of sickles, a couple gloves, a riflekind which its user never got the chance to shoot you with. You put some of them away and discard others before settling down to shuffle through the mess of Bossman's ejected deck.

You find a communication device. Just what you were hoping for. 

It's pretty straightforward, just a couple of buttons for sending and receiving, the kind of shit you see in movies. You press the send button. "Hello," you rasp out. 

When you let go of the button, the other one lights up. "11-XE Squad, is your mission complete?" says a very official, slightly staticky voice.

"No," you say.

"Then why the hell are you contacting us?!" Voice is suddenly very annoyed. "And why are you not at the coordinates we provided? Remember, we're tracking your movements!"

"Yeah, well, see," you say, cough a little, spit out some phlegm, "the target was all up and not in on his hive where he should of up and motherfucking been at, you dig. Everyone who was all of around him got culled all up and proper just like was said to get done, then some fucker stayed back to keep watch while the whole lot done and followed this hint up at someone what might have know where he was all holed up in."

"Uh, what?" Voice asks. "Wait, is this Spearman?"

"That fucker's dead," you say. "Everyone's done kicked the wicked shit. Except for me. Hard motherfucker to get a drop up on, I tell ya."

"I demand a full report," said Voice, "and stop talking weird! Any info you have matters."

"Dude, I ain't sure how long I can talk," you play up your rasp, add some laboured breathing. "And this shit's up and complicated as fuck, you got no idea what I done seen and heard. How's about someone picks me up and I tell you on base all calm and proper over a choice cuppa?"

" _No!_ " Voice's suddenly upset. "Give your report _now_ , or you will be culled!"

You drop the doodad and smash it under your heel, then pick your way over the corpses back to the one alive thresher, still lying down, the waves washing away the olive blood leaking from his fucked up leg. He watches your approach with wide scared eyes, and when you get close he offers you up a neat stack of sylladex cards, all shaky hands.

"Peace, bro," you say, dropping on your butt at a respectful distance from him. "I ain't no thief. If you feel up to getting your talk up on, though, I got some questions."

"Sure!" he says, perhaps a little too hastily. "Sure, I... I'll tell you anything you want."

"Yeah," you nod. "How did you fuckers know to find my bro's hive, for starters, and what kinda shit were you fed about him?"

"We— we were just given the coordinates and a vehicle with a digital map," he mumbles. "And weren't told much of anything! More like, 'he's a mutant with rebel connections, bring him alive if you can but dead's okay, search his hive for anything strange and kill anyone who might know he exists', and I had no idea who he was until I saw his wardrobe, I, I swear—"

You stop glaring at him, blink away the strain in your eyes. You're pretty sure he's not lying, but your voodoos are so strained your head is seriously splitting.

"I believe you, fucker," you say, and if your voice's a little growly it's because you're pretty sure you're about to come down with something annoying. "They wouldn't just out and say you were all being sent up to censorclean the shit out of my bro just to get that censorship on your faces when you got back."

The look on his face is indescribable. You just nod, then slap your knees.

"So I've got myself a motherfucking quest what to take up from now on, bro," you start, "and I can't be minding you up on it. I ain't no good at patching up, and I dunno if you gonna be alright lying on here where those fuckers probably got you all tracked up to, but if you got anyone what you think can come and sneak you away—"

He rips his sign token from his armor, tosses it at you with a grunt. When he drops his arm back down on the sand he's breathing pretty harsh.

"I have no one," he says, "and I'm not going anywhere, I don't think, but— if you can take that to... to the caves—"

His voice is drowned by a sudden, loud splash and a wall of water rising up from the sea, and you're jumping to your feet before you know it, you're crying before you can even tell; you know this sound, even though you've heard it so much less than you always wished you had, it rattles unmistakable in your ears.

Fat drops of bloody water rain around you, a foaming wave climbs up past the tideline and hits your ankles, and your new threshie bro, bless his motherfucking soul, pulls out a sickle and points it up like he would be any use at all with his torn-up tendon.

The old goat snaps his jaws down on him, sand and all, and your eyes follow helplessly as he throws his great white head back, tosses his prey up and gulps it down like you hadn't been getting your talk on together right fucking now.

Like all of this wasn't his fault.

Like Karkat didn't go into the sea over and over and over to look for his no-good useless motherfucking ass all because you almost died trying to swim after him the _one_ time.

You pull out your new sicklespear and jump.

You should have just killed _him_  in the first place.


	17. > Be the other group

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are now the other group of threshecutioners. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You really should be paying more attention.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. > Threshecutioner Cadet: do your job

You’re trying.

You are currently a young tealblood threshecutioner on your first imperial-commissioned mission. Your designated leader, a singularly stupid indigo with delusions of becoming the new Nijinski with his half-assed sickle-tipped-spear-centered fighting style, selected you to divide the remaining motley bunch of particularly incompetent-looking semi-adults in two groups after hand-picking the cleaner ones for his own. At least he let you have the scuttlebuggy, though the fact that you’re the only one who knows how to operate one might have something to do with such unexpected generosity.

That he didn’t select you to chauffeur his group like a lowly assblood may be either petty jealousy or unexpected wisdom. You don’t know. You’d tried your best to counsel him without offending his leaderly sensibilities, but he may have caught on to the fact that you’re smarter than him, and so is half the group. 

Regardless, without this vehicle you wouldn’t have been able to reach the other locations before sunrise, so maybe Mr. I Am Leader _does_  possess a smidgen of common sense.

Some time after dropping off the worst of the bunch at the brownblood target’s area, you park your buggy behind a craggy fissure, hopefully out of sight of the many cerulean-lighted windows of the opulent hive you’re about to invade. There’s a cliff beyond the hive, and beyond it looms a tall shadow, but you pay it no mind; the coordinates check and that’s that.

You leave a couple of volunteers behind to look after the vehicle and sally forth with as much stealth as the declining terrain will afford you.

Your group reaches the main entrance without issue, and one of the two brownbloods in your group manages to rip the lock out with minimum noise. You instruct the group to inform you of the target’s location as soon as it’s found, _before_ engaging, and to keep it alive no matter what. There’s no guarantee the others will secure theirs, you say. Let’s approach this as if ours is the only source of info we have, you add. We’ll certainly be praised if our target is delivered in shape for a thorough interrogation, you emphasize. This isn’t the main target but it’s the closest we have to it, and we might have to make do, you conclude.

The vague nods you get in response are not very reassuring, but nevertheless you let your group scatter and search at their own pace before moving out as well.

==========>

This hive is utterly ridiculous. Why can’t these asshole highbloods design their hives with a smidgen of restraint? It’s bad enough that you’re leaving your sensible and serviceable one behind. 

For the last hour or so you’ve climbed more stairs than is sane, and got tangled in more cobwebs than is safe. Is this kid’s lusus a spider? You don’t know much about them but the thickness of these threads probably means it’s bigger than the general variety, possibly as big as an adult. You wish you’d brought yours, but tortoises are not known for their hunting prowess.

Other than the time you found a hidden room filled with treasure a squadmate was stuffing his sylladex with, you’ve found nothing of interest whatsoever. Most of the rooms aren’t used, or only barely. Every now and then you find an old FLARP guide or a strewn bone, stumble upon the odd broken appliance. You’re quite bored, and if you’re bored then the others are twice over. 

Your communication device crackles. “I found her,” says a voice, you don’t know from who. You think it’s the other tealblood.

“Good job,” you say. “Where are you? I’ll round up the others and be right over.”

“She’s unconscious,” he says. “I’ll just bring her down. She’s pretty small, probably six, not that hard to carry.”

“Tie her down anyway,” you say. “Meet me at the reception block.”

“Good call,” he answers, and the communicator crackles off.

It takes you another however many minutes to muddle your way back to the entrance, and once there you have to call the other cadets one by one and make sure they’ll assemble. They’re belligerent and secretive about stopping whatever they’re doing, which you guess means they came across the treasure hoard too.

“The mission first,” you warn them. “First we question her, then we report to headquarters, then we ask them if they want her, and _then_  we loot her things. She was connected to our main target; there might be incriminating items among her treasure you won’t want to be caught with.”

A pair of lowbloods show up eventually, and you give it ten more minutes before you try to contact the rest again.

“I’m lost!” confesses one, eventually. You think it’s the brown one who broke the lock.

The other two snicker, but you don’t; it’ll just make him defensive, and you want to make sure your group is as organized as possible. “The hive’s not that big. Look out a window and check the shadows and the height.”

“I have!” he says, sounding almost offended. “I’m in a big spiral staircase and it just fucking goes on forever. But when I go up I’m way above the reception block level, and when I go down there are no exits!”

“A spiral staircase that goes on forever...” you repeat, mostly to yourself. You didn’t come across one, not that you remember. “How did you find it? This sounds like a secret passage. It might be connected to the ones we found on the other hive, too.”

He hesitantly retraces his previous steps, and hell if it isn’t a confusing map. “I’ll go,” offers the yellowblood, and as he leaves you pull a stool and settle down to wait. It’s twenty more extremely boring, extremely awkward minutes before you’re contacted by anyone else.

“I found her respiteblock!” says someone who’s unfortunately neither the lock-breaking brown nor his rescue. You guess it’s the olive. You wish you could tell this lot apart. “This shit’s cray-cray, man. I’m taking pictures and nabbing her computer, there’s probably some shit here that’ll interest the aristocrats.”

“Good work,” you say. “Come to the reception block once you’re finished.” You sigh, check your clock and switch to your fellow tealblood. Shouldn’t he have arrived with your target by now? Good thing you took note of the numbers. “Where are you?”

“Oh?” his voice is airy. “I’m climbing downstairs. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“It’s been long enough. Are you sure you’re not lost?”

“Hard to be lost here, it’s just one flight and it most definitely goes down.”

You have a bad feeling about that. “Are these spiral stairs without windows?”

“It’s spiralled, yes. But I’m nearly on the bottom.”

“Where did you find the target, by the way?”

“It looked like her respiteblock. Pretty messy place.”

“I see. Carry on then.” You fumble a bit at the controls trying to raise the oliveblood, and end up raising the lowblood sitting by you. He’s brown as well, which makes you jump before your brain catches up; he snickers, and you ignore him as best as your wounded pride will allow. 

This is getting extremely confusing. You decide for your own peace of mind to assign your squadmates mental names: In an uncharacteristic burst of creative pettiness, you dub your brownblood companion Brown II, and his more useful albeit lost counterpart Brown I. 

“Where are you?” you ask once you get your number right.

“Geeze!” he laughs. “You expecting me to teleport or what?”

“No,” you say, with as much patience as you can gather, “I want to know which path you’re using to come down.”

“The same stairs I used to climb up here. Why?”

“Is it spiralled?” you ask, trying to push your unease away.

“Half the stairs in this hive are spirals, chief,” he says. “Why?”

“Because three of us have been climbing stairs for way too long, including the one who found our target. Do try not to take forever to climb some fucking stairs.” You’re starting to get into a bad mood.

“I’ll keep that in mind, chief!” he says, and the communicator crackles off. You cross your arms.

When you next check your clock it’s been only five minutes since your last call, a fact your mind struggles to believe. You search the block for a distraction; instead, you’re hit with how much you don’t recognize this hive at all, and for a wild moment the reception block is a completely strange, phantasmagoric, alien place, as unlike your hive as anything you’ve ever experienced. For a moment you wonder if you’re not stuck in a dream—

You take deep breaths, close your eyes, try to gather your thoughts. This whole mission is rattling your nerves. 

You dial in Brown I. “Where are you?”

Crackling. No response.

And then he saunters into the room, fanning himself smugly with a captchalogue card.

“Suspicious computer coming _right_  in,” he sings, then looks around himself. “So where’s the target?”

“Good question,” you grumble, biting a knuckle. You had one of them wrong. You probably have all of them wrong. Time to reshuffle the puzzle in your head.

Which of your squadmates has the target?

Whoever he is you can’t hail him, so that leaves the one lost on the stairs. Time to check in on him again.

“Status report,” you say, halfway expecting more static to come through. Instead, you get a very loud, very crackly scream.

“ _Something is messing with my head!_ ” 

“...elaborate,” you’re in complete disbelief of the flat calm in your voice.

“ _When I think I’m going up I don’t think I’m going up because when I’m going down it looks like I’m going up!_ ”

You give yourself three seconds to parse that, then give up. “Deep breaths and let’s try again,” you say, as soothing as you can bring yourself to be. “You’re still at the stairs?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“And when you go up...?”

“ _I don’t get anywhere!_ ”

“And it’s the same when you go down?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

You find yourself chewing on the communicator’s corner, a habit you thought you’d managed to leave behind nearly a sweep ago. Well, whatever; it helps you think. Between your teeth, the plastic is still shrieking at you.

“ _Are you there? Are you there?! Oh my freaking god!!_ ”

“Would you say...” you start, slowly, nearly to yourself, and belatedly remember to press the relay button. “Would you say it’s your sense of direction that’s messed up, or your sense of time?”

“ _Who even gives a shit?!_ ”

“If it’s your sense of time, then your memory might be under attack,” you say, choosing to graciously ignore his flippancy under the circumstances. “If it’s your sense of direction, well... that’s much less daunting to deal with. Just sit down on whichever step you’re on and don’t move. We’ll find you.”

“Really?” Brown II asks when you cut the comm off. You shrug. 

“Our target probably has some sort of psychic power,” you tell him. “I heard some rare ceruleans can plant suggestions in people’s minds, and what he’s experiencing might fall under that. And the fact that I can’t contact her captor probably means she woke up and did something to him.”

Brown I claps your shoulder rather effusively. “You sure are well-informed!” he says, and his bright and enthusiastic smile seems to be somehow magnetically attracting your fist.

You brush imaginary dust from your shoulder instead, and move into the main hall without checking to see if you’re followed. “Regardless, we should assume she’s loose and conscious and capable of affecting our senses,” you continue. “There’s no point in spreading out; we’ll find those stairs together and search from there. Young manipulators have limited range, so she can’t be very far.”

“Got it!” Brown I chirps out. You really don’t know why you’re finding him so obnoxious. You may possibly be losing grasp on your cool.

You ask him to lead you to the target’s block, trying not to grit your teeth too obviously. The asshole just flashes you more douchey grins, as if he’s enjoying your annoyance. Is this black flirting? You don’t even find him attractive, and you already have a much hotter kismesis anyway. Also, the mission is no time for this kind of thing. You just sigh and wave him ahead, and endure.

Every time he hesitates between doors or midway down a corridor you think to yourself, oh great, we’re lost now, how predictable, stupid lowblood psychic sensibility— but to your surprise you soon find what’s obviously the target’s room: Covered in 8-ball shards, dice, flarp rulebooks, flarp posters, a shitty drawing of a pirate girl, the empty patch on the dust-covered desk where her husktop previously laid. 

All of it is covered in angry spiky blue chalk.

“Um,” says Brown II.

“I know, right?” Brown I chirps out. “Crazy fucking shit, man.”

You swallow back your own meaningless little interjection and focus on the weird graphisms instead — messy, lopsided circles over each other, a long diatribe that seems to consist mostly of STUPID CRAZY DUM8 ASSHOLE 8ITCH 8ITCH 8ITCH 8ITCH, an unexplainable little drawing of a sad-looking fairy, apparently smeared and then redrawn. Everything overlaps and entwines, thrown about the walls as if in a blind frenzy. Some of the heroes in the movie posters have been given unexplainable blue mullets. 

The red scribbles on the mutant’s respiteblock were almost elegant by comparison. Certainly much more organized.

You shake that particular thought off your head in annoyance before turning to your companions. “We need to find the alternate path which got those clowns lost. We’ll separate to search, but if you find it, _do not go down!_ ” You glare sternly at them; Brown I smiles photogenically, and Brown II just shrugs. “Contact the others before you do anything. If you feel an irresistible compulsion to follow the stairs, contact one of us, scream, make a loud noise, anything. Our target is almost certainly a manipulator of some sort. There’s no telling what she’s capable of doing. Now move out.”

In the end you find it yourself, an unmarked entrance not very far from the respiteblock. A moment of self-examination does not raise any particular urge to walk in on your own, a fact that paradoxically causes you even more unease. The brownbloods follow you down... to an unused but entirely normal lower floor. 

You fume, but mark the door you came in from with a dagger and repeat your previous orders. This mission is making you paranoid and irrational and you hate it, haven’t you been through worse before and come out alive, haven’t you survived to adulthood, haven’t you made it to the threshecutioner corps? Haven’t you—

Your comm crackles and you turn around to see Brown II waving at you from past a corner.

It’s another unmarked door, but on entering it you find yourself in the midpoint of a wide, precarious spiral, crisscrossed by dim moonlight from holes in the rock wall. It ascends into darkness, and descends towards a distant and vague shaft of light.

“Up or down?” asks Brown I. You seethe, pull out your dagger and strike the wall. A spark jumps out, leaving a bright scratch behind.

“Down,” you say, and as you descend your dagger skitters and sparks against the stone. She can’t confuse you this way, she can’t turn you around so long as you have this line to follow.

It’s almost underwhelming when you reach the last curve and spot the end of the stairs below. A long shaft of moonlight spills on the floor; you’ve reached a secret exit of sorts, it seems, but so far there’s no sign of the wayward members of your group. 

You’re starting to feel this was a waste of everyone’s time when a twist of the stairs reveals the shadows standing beside the gaping exit.

The olive is standing at attention over a curled bundle on the floor, his eyes staring vague and distant, his side to the wall. The snarl of hair at his feet is unmoving. You can see the rope around her ankles.

Whatever she did to him, she apparently couldn’t get him to untie her bonds. 

You signal for your companions to slow down, and traverse the remaining steps as quietly as you can. Olive doesn’t acknowledge your presence in any way; it’s almost a relief to reach the ground floor and find that you can’t see his blank staring eyes from this angle.

Two strides later, something bowls you over from the side.

You hit the wall and then the floor, striking blindly at the hot gross wetness that’s breathing down your face, and a hand grasps and twists your wrist until you drop your dagger — then goes slack, weighing down your body for a fraction of a second before suddenly disappearing.

You blink against the glare of the entrance to find Brown I staring at you, all pretense of easy cheer gone. He’s holding the attacker by the head, one handed, and their face is turned nearly halfway around their neck. He runs his sight over you, and though his face is remarkably dispassionate, it shows no contempt. Suddenly you don’t know if you’re falling in hate or in love with him, and it’s almost a relief to be unsure. 

You get to your shaky feet as he tosses the body to the side. “Thanks”, you say, and it comes out like an embarrassing sigh. He just nods. 

You glance at the dead troll, the yellowblood. His eyes are bulging out, and there’s foam on the corner of his mouth. You’re no medicarcer, but those are certainly not the symptoms of a broken neck.

“Um,” Brown II points nervously to the shadowed space under the stairs, “looks like he was hidden under there? Like— an ambush—”

“Someone is missing,” you say, and he jumps away from the clearly empty shadow. You can’t even find humor in that. 

You shake your head to yourself and turn to Olive. He doesn’t seem to have moved at all despite the altercation going on at his back, but you doubt he’ll stay still for long. The girl hasn’t shown any sign of life either, and from your angle she looks like a pile of discarded shaggy hair more than anything.

You mimic a pistol with your hand. Both your companions shake their heads. Nothing to it. You quietly pull out your sickle, tiptoeing towards Olive’s back. He — and the girl — can probably tell you’re approaching, but any delay in their perception is an advantage you’re happy to take.

You’re a step away from him when he suddenly comes _alive_  — shoulders lowering, arms opening — and he turns around with his eyes wide and wild—

You slice his neck open right away, and he flops back onto your target, spilling green all over her messy hair. She flinches, but otherwise doesn’t move or fight back. You let go of your breath.

His body is heavy as you toss it aside, but maybe you want to show off a little, maybe Brown I impressed you and you want to impress him back. You don’t know, you can’t tell. 

You kneel by her. She’s curled into herself, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her arms were tied at her back, you note with approval, and her legs were bound at the knees and ankles. A lock of hair is covering her face; you hook it with your sickle and pull it back.

Someone cries behind you.

“ _Fuck!_ ” screams Brown I, and you turn around in time to see the flash of a blade and the spray of bronze.

Brown II is about to sink your dagger — _your dagger_  — back down, but Brown I fights back, grapples the glassy-eyed troll, twists his arm, headbutts him, somehow manages to gore his stomach with a horn. You can see the stab marks on his back, though, more than one, bleeding copiously, and from their placement you can tell he won’t last long.

You’re rooted to the floor when he finally crumples. His killer stares at the body — and the incongruent _arrow_ on its back — with distant confusion, then stumbles out of the door, spattering blood on his way. You do nothing to stop him.

You can’t tell how long you sat on your heels, sickle loose in your hand, trying to grapple with the utter failure of your mission. How did this happen? There were five of you. No, six. Maybe. You’re not sure. You’re not sure of anything anymore. Losing track of who was who was probably the first of your mistakes as a leader. You sure do feel arrogant and foolish! You almost want to laugh. Taking this girl is certainly pointless now!

Except for all that info you need to extract on your _real_  target. 

Your body creaks as you push to your feet, heavy and sluggish. Carrying her tied-up body all the way up seems like such a chore! Regardless, she’s proven too dangerous to allow any freedom, and too important to leave behind. 

You hear the tapping of feet above your head, and can’t believe your eyes as your fellow tealblood makes it to the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey!” your voice sounds nearly two sweeps younger as you approach him. “Most of the team is lost, but the target is secure, just help me get her to the buggy and we’ll be able to interrogate—”

He walks by without any sign of acknowledgement, and you already have a very bad feeling even before you hear the shuffling behind you.

Your lungs lock up. You turn around, slowly, but not enough to miss the way the girl carelessly discards the rope on her arms. Your eyes track the ends. There’s no fray. The other ropes are similarly unwrapped, as if kept only for show. 

You walk out of the door, heart on your throat. You don’t know where you’re going, you just want to leave the ghastly corpses, the ghastly girl, you just want to be away from your failure, just for one second, just to catch your breath. You blink at the path, and it ends just in front and something in you does not like that, or what lies beyond. And beyond there’s white, and snapping jaws, clicking pincers, baleful eyes. Several of them. They’re all staring at you, and you know it.

Your legs are still kicking after you walk off the end of the road.


	19. > Be Equius

You are Equius, hours in the past. 

It’s early enough in the evening that the faraway sky is still washed in lurid poisonous colors, and you stare into the horizon from the window of your makeshift archery practice block, cracked bow in hand. Your moirail’s shadow stretches away from the dying sun, darting from cover to cover on her lusus’ back. 

You’d rather she waited, but her hive is much too far. You’d rather she stayed, but she turned up her nose at every single exemplar of noble vegetarian cuisine you had on offer and refused to touch your recuperacoon. She came as she wanted, went as she willed; there’s only so much of her nature you can curb.

Her distant form disappears momentarily behind Serket’s highest turret, and you don’t breathe right until she pops back out, barely a dot in the distance. You walked her past Serket’s property, steering as far from the monstrosity as you could, but you can’t help your emotional knee-jerk reaction to the idea of—

It was bad enough that she showed up at your front door uninvited and unexpected. 

You turn away from the window when she’s finally engulfed by a distant slope. The block’s strewn with discarded and bent arrows, and you think you really ought to have Aurthour come in here and fix this mess, _but_... 

You crouch and pick through your archery debris splinter by splinter until you reach the arrow that’s embedded into the floor. Pulling it out is out of consideration. Creating a perimeter around it is an option. So is breaking off the surrounding chunk of flooring, though some of the solemnity of the location would admittedly be lost. This is a matter that requires further consideration — it is, after all, the first arrow you have ever shot, hopefully of many to come.

Granted, it went _sproing_  off the cord, flipped in the air and went _thunk_  three feet away and to the left, but it successfully cleared the bow. Which is still in one piece, if unusable. You should mount it somewhere.

For your next shot, you’ll imagine Nepeta’s negligible weight is once again poised on your arm. It should be a lot less harrowing without her actually there to risk a half-bow to the face.

You finish clearing the area around your Arrow (with capital A) and towel off the rivulets of sweat on your arms, as well as the ones coming out of your eyes and which are most definitely not tears. A hot steamy ablution sounds like it’d hit the spot.

============>




The sky’s finally dark and the pink moon is barely risen by the time you finish your refreshing ablution. It’s a fine evening, and when you bring your computer out of slumber mode the last thing you expect to see on your screen is a trollian message from Vantas — of all the classless, caste-insecure trolls you’re unfortunate enough to be in contact with.

—  carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling  centaursTesticle [CT] —

CG: hello. i know this is a bit sudden, but could you confirm your dwelling location. there's this thing I want to send you.

—  centaursTesticle [CT]  is idle —

...A remarkably out-of-character Vantas at that.

Is this an account-hijack? It appears to be a safe assumption to make. You are given to understand that Vantas suffers from delusions of programming prowess, and believes himself to somehow match the description of a “hacker”. It’s not hard to imagine his simian keyboard thrashings being turned around by someone of slightly greater prowess, but, it seems, slightly lesser cunning.

You crack your knuckles. 

—  centaursTesticle [CT]  began trolling  carcinoGeneticist [CG]  —

CT:  D —> I do not remember authorizing you to contact me at this hour   
CT:  D —> You will cease the unauthorized contact at once   
CG: i apologize. it will not happen again.   
CT:  D —> Good   
CT:  D —> May this lapse serve as a lesson for future reference   
CG: yes. i will not repeat this mistake.   
CT:  D —> Your cringing contrition speaks highly of your social consciousness   
CT:  D —> I am pleased by your humble deference to your superiors   
CT:  D —> You shall be spared the full brunt of my displeasure on this one occasion   
CG: you are gracious and merciful.   
CT:  D —> Do not e%pect similar leniency in the future   
CG: i won’t.    
CG: a blueblood’s mercy is a rare and beautiful jewel. it is a reward to be bestowed with honor and received with gladness, not candy to be distributed among the rabble.   
CT:  D —> I see you have watched the fy-scy channel’s m001ti-installment dramatization of the ancient spearrouters’ infamous campaign against the carnivorous poppy revo100tion    
CG: i have.   
CT:  D —> It is garbage   
CT:  D —> The carnivorous poppy revo100tion was a ragtag conglomerate of pan-addled sub-ad001ts that hardly counted as a threat   
CT:  D —> The spearrouters were a joke and rightly disbanded for gross incompetence   
CT:  D —> The archerradicators were superior to them in every respe%t   
CT:  D —> You will henceforth cease all references to it and that cheap televised abomination   
CG: it is not an abomination, it is a valid interpretation of the known facts and a faithful representation of those turbulent times, also a fair and positive portrait of its much maligned commander as well as a masterpiece of creative special effects.   
CG: but.   
CG: if you so demand.   
CG: i will not bring it up again.   
CT:  D —> Good   
CG: i request permission to reiterate my initial request for your address.   
CT:  D —> Denied   
CT:  D —> My address is no business of some lowly caste-insecure hemononymous nincompoop of dubious taste   
CT:  D —> A lowb100d has nothing to offer that w001d be of interest to a blueb100d of my caliber   
CT:  D —> This conversation is over   
CT:  D —> Do not darken my monitor again, lowly gray trash

You minimize the chat window with a tight little tingle of satisfaction in your gut. Yes, it feels good to reiterate your superiority when you’re constantly surrounded by people with no comprehension of where they’re actually placed in the social order. 

You dab at your temples with the towel Aurthour just thoughtfully brought you. Of course, strictly speaking, the person behind this gray text could be anywhere on the hemocaste rung; obscuring such info is the point of hemononymity, after all. And though you’re fairly certain Vantas is low trash at best, this impersonator... could have been anywhere.

Your tight little tingle starts to get a little too tingly, a little too tight. You shiver in horrified realization. What if they were... a _purpleblood?_  Of course, they would have had to remain in character in order for this thoughtless prank to work. Still, this would mean you’ve just insulted and belittled one of your betters—

You bury your face in your towel, your guts roiling in very, very tingly dismay. Should you apologize? But if they’re _not_  a purpleblood, which is statistically speaking infinitely more likely, then you’ll be debasing yourself to an inferior, or displaying weakness to an equal—

A little spasm rises from somewhere deep within, shaking your ribs, rattling your shoulders, jolting your head and coming out of your mouth in a sound not unlike that of a snorting horse. It gives pause to your wildly corkscrewing thoughts.

You leave your chair and pace around your cluttered workshop, eyes on your fine art collection. It’s good. It calms you down. Horses calm you down, their noble and majestic visages a constant you can rely on. Walking stops being uncomfortable after a while. Yes, it’s best not to attempt further contact one way or the other; not least of all because if Vantas somehow has access to these logs, it’ll just give him something else to be an uncultured boor about.

You attempt some more archery, to abysmal results, then half-heartedly beat up your latest brawling model. It’s a fitting distraction. Soon you’re back at your desk — this time to find that you’re the recipient of several messages from Aradia, the rust-blooded subject of your most depraved, confused fantasies.

It gives you a very strong tingle of surprise. She contacts you! _She_  contacts _you!_  Many an improper meandering of your mind started in a similar scenario. You are perspiring in rivulets by the time you wrench your mind away from thoughts it should not be entertaining and focus onto the rust-colored text.

Its contents are so disappointing, you almost punch your computer in disgust.

============>




You just put a fist straight through your computer. 

Sparks surround your arm where it’s embedded into the screen. The wall beyond is spattered with the debris of broken circuitry and smushed data grubs. The whole scenario strikes you as nonsensical, completely random and disconnected from what you’d been doing not too long ago. 

You were— you were examining a picture Aradia sent, presumably of an ancient abandoned hideout of Vantas’ dissident group. You remember staring at it in puzzlement, aware that _something_  was familiar but unable to pinpoint what; it was a frustration similar to that of searching for a 3/4 left grappler that was right on top of your toolbox’s contents, and yet taking half an hour to notice its presence.

Your eyes ran over the picture from top to bottom, left to right. They scrutinized cobwebs and shadows. And suddenly recognition sparked, and your arm moved—

Oh.

Nepeta’s symbol.

You stand up, and somewhere behind you the chair topples. It is inconsequential. So many things have suddenly revealed themselves to be of no consequence, up to and including the dead husk of a computer clinging to your arm. You dislodge it with a jerk of your shoulder. It hits the floor with more inconsequential noises. A cable snaps taut, and the central processing grub unit under your desk clatters to the floor somewhere. You’re only peripherally aware of these facts.

Did Vantas know? No respectable troll would find reason to keep their symbol a secret from him, least of all Nepeta and her shameless, doomed crush. No, it is absolutely certain that Vantas knew — yet he never brought it up, as far as you’re aware of. 

Vantas had reservations about his so-called followers and his position among them, that much the Highblood made clear. You find yourself in the unenviable position of being thankful to a mutant. Even less enviable is the position of making the decision you’re about to make, and doing what you’re about to do.

You relocate to your workshop. Your mind glides effervescent above you as you move. Everything is bitter and awful and so very, very clear; you are grasped by sane madness, and it projects in your mind the blueprints of your next soon-to-be creation.

The Empire is aware of Vantas, and aware of the dissident faction which set him as a figurehead. Yet this faction, mired in illegality, has evaded discovery where Vantas’ common hive did not. Ergo, they were better secured than a single troll.

You twist and squeeze a chunk of steel into shape, barehanded. Cold sweat pitter-patters onto your worktable. Sentence fragments float up into your mind, previously disregarded statements in inferior colors suddenly rising in prominence: Vantas’ neighbors scattered in time. There was an alarm system in place. A spy in the group knew who he was, and was put in position to ensure his safety.

Nepeta has no neighbors to raise a racket, no alarm system, no spy to warn or defend her. She is a single troll with no security but her own claws. In any other occasion, those would have been sufficient. _Should_  have been sufficient. Against common predators, against hostile wanderers— 

You hammer, pinch, burn, screw. Tools spontaneously appear by your elbow. Time ceases to have meaning. Out of the tortured metal your masterpiece takes shape; it’s as dense as you can make it, heavy as only you could possibly wield. You don’t even consciously think of it as a security measure, only as a minor reassurance. There will be other reassurances, each very minor, and together they’ll comprise one single, all-encompassing security measure.

Nepeta has been set against the Empire, unbeknownst to herself, since the time of her ancestor. Betrayal sticks on a dynasty; a big enough betrayal, and she would not even be allowed the mercy of clearing her name of the ancestral shame. Her life is, as of right now, forfeit.

It really is shameful how easily you’ve taken a side. It doesn’t even feel like there was a choice to be made— where is the despair, the tortured doubt, the torn loyalty? You search yourself for angst and find a rueful chuckle instead. You hear it bubble out of your mouth from a million miles away, and it sounds impossibly old.

You step back from your worktable. Your whole body creaks; the ceiling sways above you, then settles when you feel a hand at your back. A towel touches your temple, tenderly dabbing at your forehead. Good old Aurthour.

You get your feet back under you. Aurthour hands you your thickest cable; good lusus, best butler. You snap it taut in place. How much should Nepeta know? You’d hate to feed her the illusion of a connection with Vantas, much less one resulting from ancient rebellious shenanigans. She’d probably twist it into romantic serendipity, and the thought of her being fated to such a troglodyte chafes.

You pull a lever, impossibly heavy to anyone who isn’t you. The steel groans and bends without breaking; the cable stretches without snapping. You raise your finished project, regard it dispassionately. Your thoracic cage is hollow. You’ll have to feed her this info in chewable morsels. Leave her own involvement for last, perhaps. That she’s the target of a culling party is reason enough to lay low right now.

Your project doesn’t fit your strife specibus. Aurthour offers a blank card before you even think to ask. You step away from the table, notch an arrow in place, place the butt of your new weapon against your shoulder. It fits perfectly, as you knew it would. All you need is a target.

You approach a window and regard the castle below. You could aim at a particular brick, or a windowpane. You could aim straight down at the hungry lusus. Or you could aim at the struggling figures you can barely spot in the opening far below, dancing at the threshold of the spider’s lair. Neither of them seem long-haired, and that’s as far as your misgivings will go right now.

You pull the trigger, and like a wild stallion it bucks in your clutches, aiming for freedom. In less steady hands it would have jumped right after the arrow, possibly carrying a few fingers for company. Instead you lower it in grim satisfaction. 

Down below, one of the figures has collapsed, and the other walks dazedly up the pirate’s stone plank. You quickly load and shoot again; steps away from his doom, your target topples back and rolls off the jutting rock like a ragdoll, and you glimpse your arrow in him as he falls.

That’s all the confirmation you need. You snap the safety on and deem your %bow a success.

Suddenly, the yawning emptiness in your chest is filled with feverish purpose. If you leave _right now_ , and run _really fast_ , you might be able to meet her halfway, or at least to reach her cave before daybreak. You don’t actually know when “now” is, but it feels like a perfectly sound course of action. You’ll just grab your toolbox and your miniature forge and the extra cable and all your arrows, including this one halfway into the floor, and your towels and your box of emergency medical patches, all of it empire-sanctioned and therefore useless but you never know. You have a gosh-darned arrow-shooting contraption which is equally fitting for indiscriminate bashing, and heck if you’re not going to shoot all the arrows, all of them, everywhere, at anyone. Where are your shades? You lost them at some point, you’re not sure when. Oh, they’re under the table, thank you Aurthour. You nearly slip on a puddle of sweat, then wave your custodian off when he approaches with the vacuumer. Lowbloods call it sucking device, and then snicker, and it makes you _furious_ , but all of that is meaningless because you’re going on the run with your moirail.

You crouch under your table and have a minor breakdown while Aurthour vacuums your sweat off the floor. But it’s for Nepeta’s sake, you remind yourself, because the Empire cannot afford to let her prove that she’s loyal and holds no rebel ambitions. And as a blueblood it is perfectly acceptable for you to join an anti-seadweller conspiracy, even if it’s seedy and embraces lowblood rhetoric, and if worst comes to worst they would certainly not be foolish enough to harm the descendant of one of their figureheads, right? And you have a very heavy, very solid %bow you’re willing and able to use. Even against an adult. 

Loins thus girded you abandon your hideout, %bow in one hand, and with the other scoop your custodian onto a shoulder. It’s awkward — he’s bigger than you — but he braces a hind leg on your back and a hand on your head and that’s as steady as he can get. Time’s at a premium. You walk out onto a landing, and _jump_. 

It’s a very controlled jump, aiming for Vriska’s highest terrace. Your feet hit the tiles, and you let the momentum pull you down into a deep crouch before you bound off again into the rocky plateau beyond. She probably won’t mind the crack you left behind; it’s web-shaped.

It’s only halfway down that you notice the vehicle parked behind a ridge, and the flurry of movement beyond. You can’t just leap past it; when you plant your soles on the ground you allow inertia to bury your legs past the knees, and the earth splits around you in the shape of a thousand lightning bolts. The impact snaps back into your body, travels up your spine and lifts Aurthour off your shoulder, but to your relief he lands back on his hooves and trots his momentum away safely. 

You hardly expect to be able to salvage some element of surprise, and therefore you choose to prioritize speed over subtlety as you yank your legs off the new geological fault. You shoulder your %bow and flick the safety off and run up the ridge, leap onto the landwalker’s carapace and aim straight down at Nepeta’s blue hat.

You captchalogue your %bow away so fast the arrow goes _sproing_ , flips in the air and lands a couple feet away with a _thunk_. 

“Oh my _god!_ ” she bellows, as you flop down on the vehicle’s back in boneless horror. “I almost chopped your head off, you, you, you—!” She waves her beclawed, blood-stained arms in speechless indignation, and you drink in the sight. “You— _dumpass!_ ”

She runs up the landwalker’s side and flops on your back as if her reassuring weight and touch somehow count as punishment. You just stare at the rivulets of sweat trickling down the beaten, scratched surface of the vehicle. There’s a rust-spattered corpse right underneath you; to the side, a spill of olive that punches the breath from your lungs until you spot the severed head it came from. At your back, Nepeta purrs aggressively. You could stay here forever.

“Are you harmed?” you ask eventually.

“ _No_.” Her answer is belligerent and sullen. She purrs harder, enough that you can almost feel your teeth rattle. It’s like an angry motor. She must be very upset.

You want to change into a more dignified position, but when you push up Nepeta remains flopped on your back like a sack of tubers. 

“Could you... maybe move—” you start, as tactfully as possible, but she’s already interrupting you with a “Nnnnnnnnn _no_ ” halfway down the sentence.

In the end you forcibly dislodge her by rolling. 

“Are you _sure_  you’re not wounded anywhere?” you ask, anxiously rolling her over by her trenchcoat. It doesn’t help that one of the intruders she killed was _also_  oliveblooded; you can’t tell if any of those stains are hers.

“I’m _tired!_ ” she complains, throwing her head back as she finally allows you to roll her belly-up. “You try keeping up with a scuttlebuggy all the way here.”

“Do you mean to say you actually _pursued this vehicle—_ ” Your gut goes cold.

“Look, I just had a _very_  bad feeling—” She starts gesticulating with a clawed hand.

“Of all the _foolish, pan-damaged ideas—_ ” You raise your hands to the night sky.

“I was just going to make _sure—_ ” She does the same, but with a lot more emphasis.

“Were you planning on _sleeping out under the sun—_ ” You wave at the field behind you.

“I could just _crash with you_  if they turned out to not—” She waves at your hive.

“Against how _many_ —” A tooth pops out of your mouth.

“There was just two! _Geeze._ ” She slaps your wayward tooth away, then sits up with some grunting. “The rest got into Vriska’s hive a couple hours ago. I’m a _hunter!_  You think I can’t properly stalk my prey?” She sounds almost wounded. 

“This isn’t mere hunting, and these threshecutioners aren’t mere prey. This is an extremely delicate situation!” 

“So _you_  know what’s going on?” She strikes straight into the heart of the matter, like the hunter she is. 

Your sweat near freezes against your skin. “Yes,” you say, but it’s subdued.

“Then?” she crosses her hands on her lap, all ears, and you hesitate. Then you hesitate again, and a third time, and a fourth to round it up, and she narrows her eyes at you and starts growling very convincingly under her throat.

You flounder for two more seconds before inspiration strikes and you splutter: “Good news or bad news?”

She glowers at you. “Will the good news make up for the bad news?”

You consider that for a moment from her point of view. “Yes.”

She nods. “Bad news, then.”

“Vantas’ entire neighborhood has been razed by a squad of threshecutioner cadets— _but he’s safe!_ ” you quickly append when her face twists into heart-rending shock. “He was spending the day at the Highblood’s hive. It appears they’ve... stricken up a moirallegiance.” 

You let your hand hover by her shoulder, and she leans on it, her face wan. You continue speaking at a fast clip: “It appears Vantas is connected to a hemononymous faction of underground-dwelling anti-imperialists. According to the spirits slain in the vicinity, they were specifically targeting his hive, and unearthed a number of suspicious escape tunnels and heretical paraphernalia. They also accessed his computer, and contacted several of us under false pretenses. Vriska apparently decided that drawing the invaders from his hive by using herself as bait was a sound course of action, and that is what brought these threshecutioners here.” Finally, you take a deep breath. “Our safety is compromised.”

She nods slowly as you finish, and for the next few seconds you sit together in silence. You study her face as it relaxes, and then as she scrunches her nose, twists her mouth to one side and the other. So much like her lusus. You glance up at yours; Aurthour is keeping a lookout over the slightly disjointed rock outcrop above you.

Eventually she glances back at you. “So, are you going to... move out?” she asks, with uncharacteristic bashfulness.

“It seems wise,” you say. “Even if Vriska is able to dispose of all her invaders, whoever is in charge of this squad is bound to notice the sudden cut off in communications. Reinforcements will inevitably be sent. That is why—”

“Sowillyoucomelivewithmeinmycave?” she blurts out, and your train of thought is completely derailed.

“What? Neigh!” you exclaim, and your hands move to your head of their own accord when her face falls. “I mean, no! Your hive is not safe either— if one could even call that hole on the ground a hive. Er,” your headgrasp turns into a facepalm. “What I mean is, we both must go into hiding, and I would be much more at ease if we were together.”

Her expression changes smoothly from frown to glow. “Oh, like a long-term camping trip! Purrfect. Pounce!” she leans over the side of the vehicle, and a murr responds; a tail thumps from behind the hull, smearing olive on the landwalker’s aged carapace. “We’re going hunting!”

Pounce barely seems to care; Nepeta does not seem to mind her lack of reaction either, turning to you with a gleeful grin. “I knew I’d get you to join the thrrrrrill of the hunt eventually,” she says, and slides off the landwalker before you can deny such a notion. You follow, only to find she’s already puttering about inside the driver’s cabin.

"I had something less savage in mind," you say, desperate to minimize what you know will involve days and days of sleeping in dry dirt-holes full of unhygienic organisms, possibly depending on dubiously allergenic vegetation for protection against the sun. "Though your expertise will no doubt be necessary, it would be an untenable living arrangement in the long run _stop pressing those buttons_ —”

“Why don’t we use this thing?” she asks, sitting on the adult-sized driver’s chair and kicking her legs absently. “It’s fast and makes for good shelter at day.” She wiggles the steering paddle a bit. “Then again, I guess it _is_  pretty noisy? And it leaves an easy trail, or at least it left one for me.” She slides down on her seat until her foot touches a pedal; thank god the safety is on, otherwise she’d probably have driven down a cliff already. “ _Hmmm_.”

You step in after her, just in case she _does_  disengage the safety. “It’s imperial property lying on-planet. There’s a high probability its location is monitored, as well as other things. Please _do_  be quiet.”

She seems to heed the untold warning and curls back up on the chair, watching you crawl under the control panel and dig under the benches with an air of vague curiosity. You don’t find much other than a driving instruction booklet, a map, and a ration pack nearing but not yet at its expiration date. You are immensely cheered; imperial rations are 100% artificially produced, meaning no glorious fauna had to be senselessly sacrificed in order to provide sustenance.

You leave the booklet behind when you finally crawl out and off the vehicle. “Let’s go.”

“Okay!” She leaps off the landwalker and slams its door shut. “Where to?”

“To—” to investigate cave art, you were about to say, until the absurdity of it smacked you in the face. Why are you running? You are not in the wrong. You didn’t harbor fugitives or traitors or mutants, they just stood there lying to your face as you naively believed they were proper, if rude, members of society. You are a member of the aristocracy. Is it not your duty to report dissent? Wouldn’t society itself reward you for giving away the boorish rabble which constantly threw your mercy back in your face and laughed at it? Couldn’t you buy Nepeta’s freedom—

 _Think, you f001_. You talked to one of those entrusted with the extremely important task of erasing a mutant whose mere existence put the seadweller supremacy in question, and it was a spearrouter fanboy of remarkable stupidity. Nepeta eviscerated two of their envoys after tracking a land vehicle for hours, and the others were weak enough that you saw them walk into the Spider’s maw. Their landwalker is a bent, scratched mess, possibly nearing decommission.

These are not the Threshecutioner Corps’ best, expected to perform their job with alacrity and competence and return triumphant and clean. They are the ones the empire could afford to lose, sent away with vague intel and junk equipment and expected to be culled whether successful or not. Full erasure. Full censorship. 

Nepeta is papping your cheek. That is to say, she’s briskly slapping you in a manner that seems to spell “get the fiddlesti% out of your own head”.

“We’re... going underground,” you manage to say, and once you’ve said that the rest flows out with remarkable smoothness. “According to Aradia, this anti-imperialistic faction I spoke of hides in a wide complex of subterranean galleries, where I assume they have access to the means of subsistence necessary for long-term survival—"

"Are you talking about the weird gray people?" she asks, and your brain basically skids to a halt.


	20. > Karkat: Wake up

You are numb, and you are floating. For an unmeasurable moment you are aware of nothing but your own weightlessness, and of a cushioning mass underneath and above you. It's silent, but it's a silence with substance; it sits heavy and muffling in your ears. 

It's water.

Consciousness returns in small chunks. You've fallen asleep in your ablution trap before, though admittedly waking up in those circumstances involved a great deal more panic than you feel capable of producing right now. Your mind is a blank, and you are incredibly tired, and you don't know why you're not sinking back into sleep yet. 

Vague, faraway sounds carry through to your ears, distorted and muffled. You wonder if they're what woke you up. Are those footsteps? Is that clicking? Is that a clang? Something is resonating through the trap, making the water itself thrum. Your subconscious raises a flag, but you're too tired to make sense of it. 

Still, you're past halfway awake now, and the floating limbo doesn't feel quite right. Maybe you'll open your eyes. Eventually.

You can feel the exact moment the water subtly _changes_. The lethargy — yes, that was the word, that was what you were under — starts to fade, leaving behind a much more visceral, unpleasant feeling of weakness. The thrumming resolves into the blunt aftermath of pain. You register light beyond your eyelids. The sound of sloshing becomes clearer, and you become aware of the flutter of your gills and the water running through them... and you.

That's never a good sign. Once you notice you're breathing water, it's only a step until you start panicking about it. It's such a dumb reaction. It's like becoming aware of the act of breathing, and then hyperventilating. Which, granted, you also do sometimes. Better leave the trap before you start choking for air; play-drowning is over. 

You barely move an arm before a warning tightness in your back digs up some extremely unpleasant recent memories. Shit.

You breathe _very_  slowly, _very_  carefully, and crack your eyes open.

Your reflection stares woozily back at you, broken into a thousand shivery fragments. Currents brush your skin in familiar patterns, and your inability to recognize them drives you distantly, muzzly crazy. A thin dark tendril floats up into view from somewhere around your torso. It's very disquieting, and you are disquieted.

Shadows lurk behind your reflection, and your sleepy face wavers and disperses in wild zigzags. Your blood curls and floats around you like every nightmare you ever had. Hands break the surface of the mirror, reaching out to clutch and pull at the red curls—

And lift you up, gently, steadily, the firm surface at your back causing little more than vague discomfort. The world becomes brighter, the caressing currents fade, gravity asserts itself by pressing you down unpleasantly; a cool wind blows on your nose and mouth, and before you know it your body has shifted from gills to lungs with minimum fuss.

You're reclining somewhere now, and it takes a lot of staring before you notice you're surrounded by colorless shrouds. One of them leans over you, eyes like two round holes into nothing; there are gestures, sounds. Some waiting.

Then an acidic, invasive smell burns the little hairs straight out of your olfactory cavities, spreading inside your lungs like scouring bleach. A flower of coherence blooms in your head; the nurse looks satisfied with your boggled face, and changes your breathing mask back to blessed, blessed artificial wet air.

"Please answer me, O Night of the World," he says, thankfully without the theatrical fervor usually attached. Still you feel compelled to answer "I have a name", though to your ears it sounds more like "Um fwm vm numm". Moving your lips is as awkward as smacking two flapping slabs of rubber into each other.

"Looks like he's still confused," says another nurse, her finger pressed rather uncomfortably on the thin skin under your wrist. "Maybe we should administer more—"

"Mm _good!_ " you manage to spit out, though the effect is somewhat lost under the mask. You try to tug your arm back away from the jabbing finger, but two attempts prove to be about as much as you can handle before the world starts listing to the side.

You lie back on the wet ceremonial shroud they hoisted you with and attempt to take stock of your body. You feel heavy and floppy and clammy, even though there are three nurses daintily patting you down with warm towels. There's some shit glued to you — uuuh, electrodes? or whatever — that they're tugging off one by one with lots of fiddling and biting of lips. Your brain is awake but only just, fizzling like a novelty firework and probably for as long as one would last. Despite your brain fizz, your skull feels almost hollow. So does your face. There's a weird pitter-patter in your ears like a couple of fairies took residence; it's probably your pulse. It's probably not supposed to do that.

Your fingers feel like rubber. Your toes feel like rubber. A lot of you feels like rubber. On the other hand, your back feels like slightly achy rubber, and not much else. You'll probably appreciate that in the fullness of time.

"Wuzz goin' on?" you slur, trying to focus on the light-gray figure. You recognize him, he's usually in charge of your health checks, but his name escapes through your brain-fingers. Healer Chemist? Potion Thingy? Medi-Farma? Did you really just think about brain-fingers?

Dude Who Specializes In Drugs pulls down your lower eyelids, slides something in your ear. "I apologize for bringing you back so rudely," he says somewhat conversationally, as he pulls the thingy out of your ear and twists his mouth at it. "But the Elders say you must be seen awake. The Hive is being evacuated, see."

"Hn," you say. And then you say, "Whu?"

"Apparently the Investigarrotiers saw fit to send eight adult flaysquads to comb through the passages," he says, snapping white gloves on. "Last I heard they were spread in the Jade Maze. Anyway," he starts filling a thin syringe with the contents of a thumb-sized container, "this will put you back on your feet for half an hour, so long as you don't pull any stunts. Trim Bell," he says, and a troll stands by with an adhesive bandage as he pricks the back of your hand. 

You don't feel the needle go in, and you don't feel it come out, but for some reason you acutely feel the adhesive as it's applied. A belated twinge makes itself known. Warmth spreads through your body, little by little.

"The— the evacuation, though—" you mumble, and then you pause in surprise at your own voice not sounding like you're talking through an egg.

"Oh, it's not anything that dramatic," says the other nurse, her finger still jabbed in your wrist where she's monitoring the fluttering fairies. "It'll probably take them the whole night to notice they're in a maze that goes nowhere. Scraped straight from the bottom of the barrel, as always. We have plenty of time to clear the place."

You don't know what's more unreal: The fact that they're all so calm, or the fact that you're even alive in the first place. What happened to the awful cut on your back?

You brace yourself to sit up, but before you can expend any effort the nurses operate some miracle under the recliner and it slides smoothly into the shape of a chair. The wet ceremonial robe you were lying on flops on your shoulders with a splat. 

The next few minutes go by in silent bustling. The nurses help you up from the chair, and once you're on your feet you find that you're nauseous and dizzy and clumsy. Some tugging and poking goes on behind you, and then Trim Bell wheels off with a cart full of pink bandages while the other two pepper your back with spots of renewed numbness until the new bandages feel like they're being applied through fifteen layers of silicon. Then you're wrapped in a warm towel and magnanimously endure having your leggings replaced and new sandals fastened. You're brought the sable tabard with silver threading, which greatly lifts your spirits; it's discreet and warm and you hardly ever get to wear it lately.

You're shivering violently by the time they're done. The warmth is still in your veins, but it just makes the rest of you feel colder in comparison.

Trim Bell has an auscultating bell to your wrist, replacing the jabby finger, and she makes a dubious face. "He really shouldn't be out and about just yet," she says, tugging the bell's earnubs out of her ears.

"It's only for a short time," he says — Healer Luk, you remember now, a sensible guy — but he doesn't sound very happy about it himself. He takes one of your hands and rubs some warmth in your numb fingers, an echo of a thousand previous Health Checks you've undergone in sweeps past. "You're being transferred," he says, and his voice is soft, almost mournful. "We can't guarantee your well-being during the evacuation, so we're putting you in trustworthy hands."

Something about this sentence twigs you as strange, but you can't quite put your finger on what it is. "Er," you start, blinking away your dizziness until something comes up, "what about the pupas—"

"They left ten hours ago," says the third nurse (Healer Braider!), approaching with your ceremonial shawl; it's incredibly warm as she lays it over your shoulders, folded thick and smelling like it was freshly ironed. The silky folds slide over each other and down your back, diminishing in warmth but increasing in coverage; you clutch it around your shoulders and bask until it suddenly hits you.

" _Ten hours!?_ " you splurt. 

"You had a lot to sleep off," is all Healer Luk says, tugging his gloves off and touching your forehead with the back of his fingers. 

"I've been half-dead for ten hours," you repeat, numb. Your eyes stray towards your basin. The water is constantly filtered and cycled, so the light pink sheen has got to be your paranoid imagination, right? Right?

"Hah, more like twenty!" says Healer Luk, rather too cheerfully. "We had to administer a very strong relaxant to counteract the paralytic poison, but then it turned out that the muscle stiffening was actually holding back the worst of your blood loss, so once the _first_  hurdle was jumped we had to redo your bandages and add some glue and basically you've been marinating in alternating phases of physiological serum and extra-oxygenated water mixed with sleeping draught since then, to counteract the fluid loss and breathing impairment brought about by the lack of—"

Twenty hours! No wonder the Elders want you to be seen out and about. How are your overly impressionable zealots even dealing? It must be bedlam out there. You've probably died three times already in their little minds, spewing holy blood out through the mouth like a grisly sacred geyser. You take a few uneasy steps; oh good, if you drag your sandals you can shuffle with a measure of steadiness, and there's only some uncomfortable tugging at your numb back when you move. Nobody will mistake you for hale, but you might be able to pass for really tired rather than really mauled.

"I'm going... to find... Tavros," you mumble uncertainly under Healer Luk's ongoing medical exposition. You're half-expecting someone to tell you he's been evacuated already, but Trim Bell just nods, and so you shuffle along experimentally towards the doors. It's doable. You can do this. 

You have no idea how you're going to open the doors. 

Despite all the mechanical sliding entrances used for convenience all over the Hive, practically every block that's related to you has a set of hinged doors instead. Some of them try for imposing, but even in this downright luxurious cave there's only so much zazz you can add to some wooden planks hiding a hole in the wall. When it came to the Cradle of Righteous Rage, however, they went all out: iron, carvings, arched top, even some decorative glass. The hinges are so perfectly equilibrated that you could probably open them with a touch, if only they didn't open inwards for whatever dumb reason. And the nurses know you too well to offer help.

You try a feeble knock, and as feeble goes it is exceptionally so. Against all expectations the knob does turn, though, and the door freezes an inch away from your nose to the sound of a gasping chorus.

You shuffle backwards awkwardly, circle the offending plank and maneuver around a frozen guard. "Good evening," you mumble to the floor and half wave at the usual retinue of decorative guards lined down the hall, shambling along with all the speed of Elder Plucker with a cramp. For once, the gobsmacked guards stay where they are instead of following you.

The Hall of Pools is eerily silent, and, you belatedly notice, dry. You slowly cross the Iron Bridge over the field of blasted craters that was once your personal water park; without water the pools are revealed as the constructs they truly were, with polished bottoms, artfully arranged river stones, turned-off filters and dripping pipes. Artificially built to appear natural. You knew it and you never used to care, but now the sight and feel of it unsettles you to the core — no more rushing water, no more mechanical hum vibrating at the edge of your awareness. The place feels increasingly deader the longer your limping trek takes, and the vertigo you feel when you glance past and down the iron arc is only partially related to your weakened state.

It's only after the Hall and past a junction that you finally find evidence that, yes, there _is_  an evacuation happening, and it's incredibly noisy. Even as you watch the walls are being stripped of tapestries and scrolls, and ornamental light fixtures are being put away or replaced with weak portable sources. There's a lot of gray capes and scarves running back and forth, sometimes carrying objects, sometimes waving sheets, and all in all there's a feeling of great aimlessness and confusion as well as a stifling smell of sweat and fear. You stand there for some time, surprised at how reassured you can be by such a depressingly humorous sight.

Of course, you haven't stood there for ten seconds when the whole thing dies down and you become the focus of many open-mouthed stares.

"Hn," you grunt under your breath, but in the sudden silence it's perfectly audible and you could swear it even bounces off the bare walls. You ignore it and the loudness of your dragging sandals as you resume your shuffling walk towards the crowd. 

There's a collective intake of breath as you approach (which you ignore), followed by scattered sources of rapid-fire prayer (which you ignore even harder), and, as soon as your small steps reach the throng, a bubble of unoccupied space manifests around you (which you appreciate for the first time in your life). Somewhere behind you there's a crinkling of paper, some whispers, and a sigh spreads; some sort of spell is broken, and the crowd starts moving again. 

Their eyes are still on you, of course, always; but you shuffle along through the shifting bustle, hunched under your ceremonial shawl and paying no heed to the gasps and murmurs that follow your passage. You're wearing your black tabard, and the black tabard means it's your day off.

Yet the effect your presence has on the hurrying cultists is undeniable. Wherever you go, the somber atmosphere turns electric; downcast eyes are widened; every now and then the flash of a picture device flares. Some approach shyly and peer from afar, while others are daring enough to brush your shawl with a finger before skittering off amid breathless gasps. The halls feel hollow and strange, emptied of fixtures which had been an overlooked constant in your life, but in that initial moment when your presence is noticed the air is filled with familiar awe.

You have to be seen. You have to be alive and palpable and real. You appear to have spontaneously generated a pair of busybodies holding up the trailing ends of your veil.

"...fuck you doing?" you hiss when you catch on to their presence. They drop the shawl in surprise when you (slowly and painstakingly) turn around to look at them, and you barely get to initiate your shooing protocol before they hurriedly stumble off. They're hardly three steps away when you hear them whisper to each other about your virtuous humility; you wish you had the energy to run after them and whip their legs with your fluttery silky abomination.

Tavros turns out to be in the Foyer of Friends, currently a resonating echo-chamber of chaos. He's not particularly hard to find, however, since for whatever reason he's also surrounded by a radius of holy breathing space; he's sitting on a gleaming new wheeled device, and seems completely absorbed by the murals.

The Foyer is where secret and not-so-secret allies are registered, generally after death. There had always been a few of them every other generation, you are given to believe — people who thought the philosophy was cool and all but the pacifism and religion and hiding were dumb — but the Empire being what it is, lowbloods rarely bothered with secrecy and went down hard and fast, and highbloods had a much bigger shot at being useful by nudging things quietly in high places. Therefore, the murals in that particular block had an unfortunate bent towards cooler colors, those being the ones more likely to stick around long enough and get far enough to make ripples. 

This trend is usually offset by a variety of red decorations, and their removal makes the place look eerie and just very slightly _off_.

Tavros doesn't react to the sound of your dragging sandals, and you stand woozily by his wheeled ride and catch your breath with slow shallow inhales until he does a double-take at you. 

"Hey," you croak.

"You're awake!" he seems almost offensively surprised. "A-are you really okay? Should you really be out here?"

"Yes," you rasp. "Not really, and yes. Look," you swallow through a drying throat, "They didn't harass you about our friendship, did they?"

"Huh?" Tavros looks thoroughly confused.

"They didn't get in your case about my life on the surface, or who else I talked to or anything?" he shakes his head. "Oh, good, though seriously I find that hard to believe, so it's probably incoming. I'm pretty sure you're sick of hearing about my ancestor by now, and you can probably tell these guys make a huge deal out of him, and because of that they can be a bunch of entitled little fucks about what they think is my well-being sometimes." Your voice is growing progressively scratchier. "They'll probably interrogate you like the nosy fuckers they are, and you don't have to tell them fuckall, you hear? You have my express permission to be as tight-assed as a constipated clam. If they get pushy about anything private just call it a secret with capital S, they eat that shit up. Okay?" He nods vaguely. "Good."

You let go of a breath you didn't know you were holding, and your back prickles as your shoulders relax. A sourceless tension ache starts to make itself known. You swallow a couple of times, feel your throat stick to itself. The silence between you two starts to get awkward. Are those little fairy wings embroidered on his button shirt?

"Um," you say, right when he decides to say the same thing. He shrugs and settles back, which is very inconvenient as you have no idea what to fill the pause with.

"Uh," your eyes stray around for a topic, and you finally wave an elbow at the murals. "So what were you looking at here?"

He quirks his lips minimally, as if your question was amusing but only halfway, and points to the centerpiece of this wall — a large depiction of the Summoner in flight, framed in bronze foil. It dominates this particular mural so thoroughly you've long since stopped registering it, even as you keep finding some new ancient spy dude in a corner.

But it makes sense, you think, Tavros did always love fairies and the suchlike, and the Summoner is basically the giant brown fairy of his dreams only instead of some fairy-dust slinging weenie he's this hardened badass who _wait wait wait wait—_

A jolt runs through your brain and it jumps in gear as if it had been half-asleep all along; a veil you didn't know was there is lifted from your sight, and you stare at the mural, really, _really_  stare as you have not since your earliest sweeps; and you finally understand what you see.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," you say, with feeling. 

"Uh?" he stares at you in confusion.

"Oh my fuck, Tavros, I am _so sorry_." You shuffle around to face him full on, wincing a bit when you go too fast. "Ungh. I really, _really_  had no idea, I feel so stupid, I never even noticed, all these fucking tapestries went right over my fucking head, and I even brought you _here!_  And the Summoner is such a big deal, too, I mean, they probably made it obvious to you already, but some of these dudes think he's an envoy from the, uh, _Thrones_  and that's about as crazy as you can get before they start bringing in space fireballs and other such retardities, _god_  I hope they haven't tried to cram all that shit in your head yet."

"I, I'm good," he says, but he looks a bit anxious so you keep on trucking on.

"Okay, look," you limp a bit closer to him, "these assholes have probably tried to lay the guilt-trip on already, right?"

"Well—"

"You know, the thing where they look like starving barkbeasts in the rain while asking for some vague-ass wisdom, or even some vague-ass salvation, and then they look crushed if you so much as make a sudden movement."

"Actually—"

"Well, don't you take any of that bullshit!" you pant a little from the very energetic hand-shaking you punctuated this exclamation with. "You're just enabling their asshole illusion of your supernaturalness which you don't actually have and never claimed to. Just tell them straight away that you have no answers to give, and don't you ever apologize for it. Ugh."

You lean a shoulder against the Summoner's image. Acid started to crawl up your chute during your rant, and you were barely hitting your stride when it made itself impossible to ignore. A few shaky breaths push the burning back down, but by then you've completely lost track of what you were going to say. Being hurt sucks, you think. Somebody write that shit down. Wisdom for the ages. 

Tavros stares at you with his eyebrows rising progressively higher, and finally raises a hand in alarm when you sag.

"Calm down," he says, patting the air softly in the standard reassuring maneuver, no-touchies edition. "It really hasn't been much of a problem, as they've been very polite, and I have duly marked my boundaries, which they've respected as well, and..." he scratches the scruff under a horn, "well, certainly they've been trying to get me to dress in some outrageous things, which I presume were in fashion around my ancestor's time, but I let them know I had my own clothes, which I was satisfied with, and that I had a preference for discrete items in mostly black, and now they just hand me normal items of clothing with subtle adornment, much like this one..."

He smoothes his button-on shirt with a hand, seemingly satisfied with the line of tumbling fairy wings embroidered in shimmery bronze thread. They look like they've been severed to you. You'll have to find someone to shout to about slapping creepy depressing imagery on your naive friend, or at least speak very sternly about it, but for now you don't have the heart, or the energy, to crack his happy little face.

"Anyway," he continues, "I had prior warning about all of this, and it was from you, actually."

"Huh?" you blink a couple times. It feels like your brain got all tuckered out from the heavy-weight ranting you put it through in the last thirty seconds or so. 

"Yes," he says, and leans forward as if to study your hunched form from a better angle. "I assume you were delirious, since you don't seem to remember, but you told me about my ancestor while you were on the weird healing table, having your wound sewed shut, and your gills washed with special water, and drinking some sort of tea—"

"What? No," you shake your head, and sparks crisscross your sight as you do. "I didn't, I, I only just noticed it."

"You even gave me a similar talk to the one you just said, which was very helpful, even—"

"But," you mumble, and shake your head again, and you think your pulse is back to fluttering at your ears. You don't exactly know why this is such a big deal to you but it just _is_ , and the hollow bubble swirling in your head isn't helping you make sense of why this is making you lose track of up and down. 

Tavros grabs one of your arms like a vice, and you clutch right back. 

"Karkat," he says, his voice muffled as if you were back underwater, "you can sit on my lap, if you need it."

"What? No!" you squeak, and slap his arm away in surprise. The vertigo passes, the confusion retreats. You're still groggy, but the shock has startled your brain back in gear, and you feel slightly less dumb.

"Okay," you restart, putting a hand on your chest where the nausea is rearing up again, "so you're telling me that I figured this shit out on the operating table, and then figured it out all over again here."

"I'm not sure if that was the case," he says mildly, "since, honestly, you didn't seem the least bit surprised, and it didn't seem like news to you at all."

"Well, that makes fuckall sense," you shoot back, and limp a little when you turn in order to properly gesticulate at the wall. "Look at this asshole, his symbol for the movement's purposes is a ball with stylized wings on top. I only just noticed it was your symbol modified because you were sitting right by it!"

"There's probably a perfectly sensible explanation for this," he says, "which is possibly that you figured this out while lying on my legs on the way here, since you had a good long look at my symbol during that time, what with being swooned on my chest, but you lost so much blood that it didn't stick in your mind afterwards."

"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard," you say, even though it makes perfect sense. You remember bits and pieces of the journey here, but it's all awfully muzzy. Who even knows what you were thinking.

"Okay, then," he dismisses your dismissal with a shrug, and you move back into awkward silence.

Movement in the room seems to be intensifying, even though it's not on the way to anywhere important and all the furniture has been collected already. The reason is obvious to you: Everyone wants to witness the interaction between two revolutionary legends, or at least between their hapless descendants. They'll just mill around until you deliver, and brooding together in companionable silence will only work for so long.

"Urgh," you accidentally say out loud, and when Tavros glances questioningly at you you fish around for another topic. "Uh, find anything interesting in the Hive, though? It's like. So old. Super old. Old as balls."

"Aaah— oh!" Tavros visibly fishes around as hard as you just did, but unlike you he seems to find something worth reeling in. "I saw the place where they grow food underground!"

"The Hive of Greenery?" you blurt out. Of all the actually cool things in the Dark Hive which you constantly take for granted that's admittedly one of the biggest deals, and every now and then it does hit you with renewed wonder.

"Yes, that one!" he grins. "It's really incredible that they grow plants inside a glass block, which mimics the weather on the surface, using heat from the magma under the ground and stuff, which's... actually really scary?" He looks momentarily haunted. "Even though the whole thing seems very controlled, I suppose, and hopefully won't erupt, I guess. They also had all those lamps, which were thankfully turned off, to simulate the sun, and it's kind of sad to think that they'll have to leave all that stuff behind, it seems. You know, I never used to see actual growing food, or taste it, as opposed to food you buy from places, or get in ration packs, and it's all kind of weird, though also exciting in a way, and... some fruits have a weird texture in your mouth when you bite on them," he confides, "which somehow isn't conveyed through bottled juice and ice-cream."

"Yeah, it's different from artificial flavoring," you concur, though in your case you actually got to taste the original fruits first, and sometimes like the artificial flavors better anyway. 

"Yes, but nevertheless it was extremely cool to visit," he says, settling back with a smile. "Like visiting in a miniature jungle, which somehow was organized in rows, but still very green and leafy, and which I could even imagine Nepeta running around in while roleplaying as a meowbeast."

"I see," you don't, not really, but at this point you're just letting his voice wash over you as your thinkpan slowly sags back in tiredness.

"I also saw the block with all the lakes, and the cool iron bridge," he continues, "and this marker which is holy for some reason, and I saw the paint makers crushing seeds and flowers until the colors bled out, which was really cool and explains all these paintings a lot better. And I also visited the Recreational Block for Pupas, which is a very comfortable and fluffy place and full of really interesting games, and blocks of all sizes colored in pleasing pastels, and I also visited this wall that had a depiction of you chastising an adult over another cowering adult—"

"Oh god," you mutter, vague memories of calling some elder a big stupid asshole bully at some point or another floating up unbidden through your hazy mind. The memory is making sparks bounce around in your head for some reason. Who was the Elder involved again?

"—and also the place where they make delicate jewelry, though sadly they were dismantling it already when I got there. Are you really sure you're actually okay?"

"Has it been half an hour?" you mumble to yourself, and sway almost experimentally. Okay, no, you're not collapsing yet, you can adjust your equilibrium, your back is still made of silicon. But you're starting to think you passed the peak of this ride not too long ago, and are perhaps gearing up for a lovely featherbeast dive. 

"I don't know about the time," he says, "but maybe you should sit down somewhere."

"Not on you I won't."

"No," he agrees. "But somewhere."

"Hn," you're not entirely sure you're even capable of bending right now, and if you do you probably won't be able to get back to your feet. "Maybe... maybe I should go back to my block—"

You're interrupted by the arrival of a massive group of elders, heralded by their usual bickering as they cut through the crowd of curious hanger-ons. The Grand Elder stands smack-dab in their middle, his face so rigidly displeased he looks like a disapproving granite idol with shades. Meanwhile the entourage shifts and stumbles around him in a constant ebb and flow; it's as if the Grand Elder were a displeased gas planet orbited by dozens of Elder Satellites, half of which are competing to be the ones striding purposefully in front while the other half shake their heads.

When they finally reach you the one in front happens to be Weirdly Over-Emotional Elder Cries-A-Lot, who predictably takes one look at you and bursts into tears, and his colleagues charitably shuffle him further back into the group. Three others agglutinate into his previous spot, shoulders stooped and capes shuffling as if trying to look extra servile; you glower at them with all the dignified annoyance a convalescing mystical figure can convey, and they immediately shuffle the Grand Elder to the front. Or rather, they shuffle behind the Grand Elder's statuesque frame, and he humors them by taking the front.

He kneels down, like he usually does when he wants to talk from eye-level. You feel a bit of unease, but you can tell it's unfounded; when you fuck something up, the Grand Elder always tells you about it in private, over a plate of dry fruit and a teapot, and at inconspicuous hours. He understands better than all the other elders how precarious your position actually is. Some other fuckery is afoot.

"How long can you stand?" he asks, his deep murmur concealed by the general bustle of cultists sticking around where they needn't be.

You grimace a little and sort of mumble back. "Ugh, I don't really know, I mean... to be honest I'm feeling kinda shitty, but it's like, faraway shitty or summat— anyway, dude told me his thing would last a time, but that was sometime ago—" you palm your face in frustration. "I'm not even making sense to myself!"

The Elder's face relaxes minutely. "You seem to be in good enough spirits," he rumbles, and offers his palm; sweeps of habit have you rest your hand on it, and their juxtaposition makes yours look almost as small as it did in your earliest memory of him. " We are about to empty the Hive, however..." He presses his lips into a thin line. "The Council believes it would improve general morale if you were present and visible as final instructions are given out in the Gathering Block."

"Uh, sure," you say. The Gathering Block is the widest in the Dark Hive, and it has both a dais (for you) and a stage (for everyone else). It's certainly the place to go for both gathering and visibility purposes. You don't like the way your thoughts are turning progressively sillier, though.

The Grand Elder nods gravely, and when he lowers his arm down to your hip you clutch your shawl and lean your weight on the offered seat without conscious thought or decision or so much as remembering that _Tavros is right over there, oh god_ — but by then the Elder is already rising to his feet like a mighty golem, and an attempt to climb down in embarrassified sputterment would not only be ridiculous and childish, but also incredibly painful. 

So, instead of jumping down and clarifying your muddled aromantic relationship with the Elder (while nursing freshly broken legs), you settle back and allow your mind to drift while murals and patches of previously tapestry-hidden rough rock whoosh by. 

It feels like no time has passed at all before you're being lowered, and your unsteady feet touch the floor of the Readiness Block. It is, in the tradition of all backstages, dusty and unfinished; the walls are raw cave rock, the floor is uneven and rough, and non-holy debris of Accords and Testimonials past, usually lined on wobbly shelves waiting for the next occasion, are being dumped into bags and captchalogued. 

You watch it all happen from a place of weird underwater mufflery. Everything is kind of floaty and swimmy. Looks like that featherbeast is diving! Why were you thinking about featherbeasts again?

Okay, no. Get a grip, Karkat. On this biggass floating bear paw, if you must. 

"Karkat." The deep rumbling voice tugs you a little closer to reality, and you manage to focus on the Grand Elder somehow. "Are you _sure_  you're up to this?"

You nod minimally. The hand you have laid on his palm is covered by another humongous, heavy hand— a gesture you're not familiar with coming from him, and which you can't quite interpret in your state. But he just nods once, very gravely.

"The Council wishes to dress you in a newly designed Ceremonial Robe," he says, and you nod again. Robe. Yes. Makes sense. You need to be wearing red. Red means you're in business. "It is a joint creative project by the Weavers, the Jewelerers, the Seamstrices, the Embroiderers and the Paint Makers." He says it very carefully, like this should mean something specific to you, but sifting through layers of meaning right now is too tiresome; you just give another stiff tiny nod, and he lets go of your hand.

Then the Grand Elder stands up and melts into the shapeless gray wall up ahead, abandoning you in some bizarre half-dream. Your ceremonial blankie is tugged off your arms; you barely get to vocalize your dismay before it's muffled by jingling cloth, and when you see the world again it's with a heavy, clacking weight settled on your shoulders. Everything is momentarily louder and noisier.

"Where the _fuck_  is Silk Weaver!?"

"He locked himself in the hygiene block, says he made a mistake on the gloves—"

"Somebody dig ‘im out!"

"He keeps sobbing and asking for an honorable cull—"

"Somebody remind ‘im we don't do that, and then _dig ‘im out!_ "

Several people seem to be kneeling around you, for once neither in prayer nor in patient wisdom; instead they tug your new robe here, tuck it there, and the sudden sting of a pin makes you twitch from your neck down. A belt is tied around your waist, and sewn in place instead of buckled in. 

"But what about the gloves—"

"The beading snapped!"

"The new leggings aren't—"

"Leave it to me, where's the velvet—"

You feel the weight of a collar as it's fastened around the base of your neck, and when your hand wanders up in curiosity it brushes several tinkling coins. Other fingers tangle with yours, holding beads to hang around your shoulders; someone tugs at your sleeve, and you feel as it misaligns something by your waist. There's a lot of frustrated hissing around your ears, but you can barely make sense of it.

"Shit!" someone says at your back. "The Green Moon fell!"

What? No. That can't be right. It was there when you arrived, it was this whole thing you had to deal with—

There's a crunch somewhere out there, and the murmur diminishes enough that you can hear a very small "fuck" before it picks back up twice as agitated.

"Somebody bring in a semi-flat size-five jade!"

"Glass will do! We don't have time to—"

Your arm is guided into soft cloth. You raise it and blink at the luxurious red loosely wrapped around your wrist; the assistant doesn't try to pull your arm back down, but neither does she stop what she's doing, expertly sewing part of the cloth around a ring and sliding it onto your finger. Somebody stumbles up with a beaded string, which she drapes around your impromptu glove. It's warm; you notice how cold you've been all over again.

As if weighed down by the awareness of the cold, you finally _dive_.

For a terrifying moment, you lose track of up, down and the location of your limbs. You plunge into a deep white dream and then come out; somehow, instead of finding yourself flat on your back, you're sitting on the shoulder of whoever's kneeling behind you. His horn digs into your waist. He's wrapped the long tail of your robe around your legs and is dutifully embroidering a cluster of jewels on its train despite the awkward position; someone offers a green gem and he yanks it out of their hand without taking his eyes off his work.

Another velvet tube is being tugged up your other arm. You almost want to ask the assistant if she noticed that you just fainted, and how they kept you up, and how they kept the Grand Elder from noticing—

You blink and stare at the bustling hoods beyond your immediate circle of last-minute adjustments. It still feels like you're surrounded by a very mild hallucination — you can't quite focus on anyone's faces or their actions — but at least you can tell that the unmistakable, massive figure of the Grand Elder is not around.

But you do spot a patch of brown, and your mind clears enough that you understand what you're looking at. It's Tavros; they draped his chair and legs with different shades of bronze, and much like you he's being subjected to a final bout of embroidery. It looks like he's in the process of firmly objecting to the string of fine sparkly chains draped over his horn.

Someone touches your foot, and your improvised seat dutifully holds you steady as you're subjected to velvet leg warmers and even more beads. Meanwhile a shadow covers your sight, and your face is assailed by daubing fingers, and prickly brushes insistently rub over your eyelids, cheeks and lips. Everything clacks and clinks around you at the slightest movement, and it's not helping you fight back the floaty feeling of surreality you're struggling with.

Finally, you're gently pushed back onto your feet, your ceremonial thingy is draped back over your arms, your elbows are adjusted so they'll hold it in place, and then there's more tugging, more clinking, more curses, more rapid-fire sewing. Elder Charter strides up with a horrid hat-shaped... _thing_  under an arm, trailing a pointless veil and yet more beads; he solemnly sets it on your head and steps back, only to twist a corner of his lip in sneering disapproval. 

"I _guess_  it'll have to do," he mumbles, turning and sighing in affected tiredness, and it's just such a... _thing_  that it makes you want to walk up and kick his shins, wave a finger at his face and tell him some veritable _stuff_. Stuff, yes, because your words are fucking off little by little and you can't think of anything more descriptive than that— undeniable proof that you're going to walk out there and immediately dismantle like a hive of cards.

When everyone finally steps away from you, it feels like the stiff cloth is the only thing holding you up.

You drag a sandal forward in a tentative step. Everything around you rattles like an entire percussion orchestra, but you manage to stay on your feet despite your lightheadedness. 

The Grand Elder strides in, horns, head and shoulders above his colleagues, his cape flaring wider and farther than you've ever seen it go. He almost looks hurried.

"The equipment is in place," he tells Elder Charter. "The Messenger is waiting."

The room plunges in surprised silence. You suddenly feel suffocated, as if the collective intake of air sucked out everything there was to breathe. Charter doesn't seem to care, though— he just nods and turns to the rest of the room, clapping his hands for attention and initiating a series of complicated gesturing and pointing. Slowly, hesitantly, the assistants leave the block. Elders start taking position ahead of you, and are sometimes dragged by Elder Charter into a different spot. Somebody wheels Tavros to your side, and intense shuffling takes place at your back.

Without you moving an inch, a two-person-wide entourage has formed around you. 

"Move at your own pace," says Elder Charter, who's suddenly right by your ear. "I'll make sure everyone follows your steps."

You can't turn your head to look at him, so you do another tiny nod and hope he sees it. Charter steps back.

"Tavros," you mumble, "if I clutch your device out of nowhere it's because of friendship. And symbolism."

"Got it," he mumbles back, and you finally move.

Slowly, ponderously, the entourage starts to file onstage, ruthlessly directed by Charter running up and down the line with hisses and gestures. You clear the backstage entrance without tripping or sagging once, and somehow manage to keep up the streak until you reach the center of the half-circle of capes. 

You vaguely remember the half-circle being standard for Minor Accords— usually welcoming cultists who just moved in from whichever place, bringing whichever skill, a clap of hands for our new brosis. It seems fitting for a farewell, though. You stand in place, and let your head float gently as Elder Charter steps forward and gives some sort of speech.

The Gathering Block has become completely alien. The rivulets around the walls are dry; your dais, standing opposite from you for the first time in your memory, is bare of pillows and blankets, and the ceremonial bowls and fancy lamps and scrolls and tapestries are gone. The gathered cultists are sitting on bare rock, their hooded and shaded faces eerie under the half-light from the portable sources hanging over the stage. You can't tell if their orange-ish edges are an artifact of your delirious sight; even though you feel cold, everything looks as hot as if a fire was starting nearby. 

"The Followers marked with the triple-braided Iron-and-Gold wristband are to move to the Hive of Red Clay," says Charter, scrolling through his ubiquitous tablet. "Don't try to make the trek all at once; the Waypoint Hive and the Hive of Sandy Breeze have offered space for a day's rest and rations. The tunnels that point in their direction have been walked by hostile wanderers, so it's advisable to stagger your exits and move in groups of two or three. Double-check your daylight capes and skin-protecting-pomade in case you need to move under cover of daylight. The followers marked with the Scarlet and Jade band—"

Your eyes travel over the shadowed, solemn faces and the dark reflective mask of their glasses, their stiff backs and tense shoulders mirrorring yours; your eyes cross in vertigo, and under the weak light they blur together into an indistinct gray mass of bumps and points, a single amorphous blob, anonymous and identity-less. 

You're suddenly aware of how little you actually know about them, about all these needy assholes you've interacted with so often for so long. Here and there you recognize a pair of horns, spot a familiar nose, find a set of lips teetering on the edge of recall— but you know nothing about them, only what they do and how they act in your presence. Who are they? Who _were_  they? What was it they were truly after when they threw away their old lives and burrowed underground, sewing you a jewel-studded robe while living in monastic poverty? 

More than ever before you feel like a sham, a fake, a con-troll taking advantage of these people's desperate yearning for innocence. You want to tell them that you can't help. You want to explain why they should expect nothing from you. You feel like you should be curling in shame, but instead there's only a dark, empty hole eating at your chest, drafty and cold. 

"...remember that the pupas of Dapplehorn Hive have known horror. Employ your Common Sense and do not put them under undue stress," Elder Charter says, tucking the tablet under his arm. "With this, our instructions are finished. Raise a hand if you have anything to say before departure."

Nobody stirs. The air is still and heavy, devoid of the ever-present trickle of water and hum of air recyclers, and without the murmur of cloth and the swish of capes the atmosphere is more solemn than it ever was in any previous ceremony, almost suffocatingly so. Sour anxiety crawls up your throat. Even now, all you do is stand somewhere like a religious adornment so that the fact of your mere existence will bring reassurance to these people whom you barely bothered to—

The solemn silence is utterly shattered when you step forward, swaying like the noisiest and most awkward quackbeast, and weakly raise a hand. Your beads swing and jangle even after you've firmed yourself on your feet.

Their collective attention focuses on you with the strength of a hammer's blow. You had thought it impossible for the Elders around you to emanate any more stiffness, but are proven wrong by the simultaneous surprised flinch that carries through the very air over the stage.

Your previous decisiveness crumples under the weight of their surprise; your back prickles in warning as your shoulders hunch unconsciously.

"I..." 

Your voice is tiny and weak and pathetic; it falls muffled out of your lips and straight to the floor like a stunt that failed before it started. No dramatic echo, no booming reverberation for you, only the mundane flatness befitting someone who— you stomp mercilessly on this train of thought, and force your words out through numb lips:

"...I want to see your eyes."

Nothing happens, nobody says a word. Somehow you expected protest, but now you wonder— how could anyone challenge a direct request from you, in such a public location and delicate moment? Even the Elders who've tried to undermine what little influence you have could never do it so brazenly without serious repercussions, and the average follower would not dare, no matter how justified they were. Yet revealing your blood color is anathema, displaying your eyes is forbidden, and there are perfectly justifiable reasons for them to be so. 

You've never regretted opening your mouth so deeply. 

Cloth shuffles behind you, and you feel more than see the Grand Elder's looming figure step forward. You expect him to stoop down with a kind hand on your back, to cover your view with his cape, to softly tell you how and why you're being unreasonable, and you keep expecting it until he steps to the edge of the stage and reaches up to one of the portable illumination devices, lowering the cover on the furthermost facet and dimming the light that fell on the audience. 

He dimms each device one by one, moving to one corner and then backtracking to the other. Some of the Elders seem to realize his intentions and step forward to help; soon the audience is as dark a mass as the sea on a moonless night. The elders step down onto the narrow, respectful space set between the followers and the platform, some gracefully, some awkwardly, and kneel down, their faces turned to Tavros and you. 

And then the Grand Elder takes off his glasses and raises them where its silhouette will be clear to those on the back. His eyes glitter from the shadows under his hood, refracting like a meowbeast's under the dim light; seeing their color makes you want to laugh — in surprise or hysteria — as a hundred hints coalesce in your mind into a sudden bubble of understanding.

The other Elders raise their glasses as well, not to be outdone, and as you glance at each of them in turn you can't help thinking _I would have never pegged you as olive, I could swear you didn't have fins, you're the mildest purple ever, holy shit, you're brown!, another blueblood?, how are you still alive if you're rust, you being jade explains a lot, you're the opposite of sollux, and so are you, why is there another fucking violet what do violets stand to gain_ —

Your train of thought is derailed as the darkness behind the Elders wavers, dances, and starts to fill with multicolored stars.

You stare dumbly at the blinking spectacle in front of you; perhaps because of the fading drugs, or maybe because of the severity of your wound, you forget the stone under your feet and for a moment are utterly convinced that you are floating, waiting half-asleep on the edge of infinity, and the shivering lights of the universe are laid down at your feet, a billion thousand wigglers for you to defend and nurture. 

Then you slip back into the cave, and ahead of you is not a magnificent cluster of stars but merely a gathering of very scared, very brave people, some staring stiffly ahead, others turning their heads shyly to their neighbors. Yet the intense joy you carried from that vision doesn't diminish in the least; instead, it overflows and runs down your cheek in an embarrassing display.

You crack a shivery smile. You'd thought the warmblooded stars would vastly outnumber the coldblooded ones. You were wrong.

Tavros wheels up to your side with a wide, surprised grin. You grin back weakly, grasp the back of his device and sag over the handles, and the spell seems to break; the Elders climb back onstage, their glasses firmly back in place, and cluster around you while Elder Charter shouts out instructions. Once again you lean on Tavros' device, this time under the guise of pushing him backstage, and as soon as you're out of view you're picked up and sat on one of your own. 

They tug the ceremonial headgear off your head, and since you're clutching your shawl for dear life they gather its loose length onto your lap instead of taking it away. You keep slipping in and out of your starry hallucination, carrying from the edge of infinity this weird, fond amusement directed at the moons, the caves, the blustering Elders around you. There's a "tlink" sound, and your device runs over a bump on the floor with a crunch; someone behind you says "Not the green moon again!", and you find yourself snickering inexplicably.

They push you through darkened halls and paths towards the floating platform, and descend to the Grand Elder's lab in a cluster of gray capes. Most of the machinery in the block that isn't bolted down seems to have been put away, and the embedded lights are all on. The Grand Elder strides ahead towards a small platform that was always there but which you never paid particular attention to; it's the first time you see its display turned on, but none of the imagery on the screen feels new to you. 

You let your head loll a bit to the side, and spot the drawer in which the Grand Elder used to keep a small portable computer for you. You suddenly, burningly need to talk to the others. Is it still there? Has Tavros contacted any of them during his stay? The Hive's connection is heavily protected and outside communications are for emergency reasons alone, but you were allowed to browse in a broken down and simplified system and troll around so long as you didn't accept any files. At some point you suspected your connection was monitored, but that just encouraged you to be particularly vicious and ridiculous in your convos. 

You grasp the handles on your wheels like you've seen Tavros do, but a warning burn traces the edges of your wound as soon as you try to push. You relax back onto your seat. Oh well. You tug the nearest cape.

"C'n you push me over there?" you mumble, and— oh god, this is Elder Cries-a-Lot. You're so not up to his over-emotional bullshit right now. 

But he looks down at you from so far away, you wonder if he's not hallucinating the same starry spectacle you did. His glasses are still off. A single tear runs down his cheek.

He pushes your chair to the intended drawer, tucks your knees neatly under the desk it's attached to, steps away and stands there, swaying gently with his face to the wall. You ignore him and pull out the small portable device, still waiting for you. You haven't used it in a long time, and it's smaller and lighter than you remember it being. It's still charged somehow; you boot it up to the very barebones interface, and open Trollian. 

Terezi is the only one online.

— carcinogeneticist [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] —

CG: tetrezi  
CG: *TETREZI  
CG: *TEREZI FUCK.  
GC: QU1CK T3LL M3 SOM3TH1NG ONLY K4RK4T WOULD KNOW  
CG: I WORWE THE DRAGON CAP EYOU FORGOT IN MY HIVR.  
GC: OH  
GC: WOW  
CG: IC AN TYPE.  
CG: ..  
GC: OK4Y 1 H4V3 NO 1D34 WH4T TO TH1NK 4BOUT TH3 TH1NG YOU JUST S41D  
GC: SO 1M GONN4 4CC3PT TH4T ONLY K4RK4T WOULD KNOW 1 FORGOT MY C4P3 4ND H4D TO GO B4CK 4NG R3COV3R IT 1N TH3 F1RST PL4C3  
GC: 4ND 1LL FORG3T 4BOUT TH3 R3ST UNT1L TH3 N3XT T1M3 1 N33D 4 F4VOR  
CG: SORRY, IT WAS A CREWPY THING TO DO AND I FELT BAD AFTERWARSD BUT ITWAS WARM ANDI WAS HAPPY AND SAD AN DLONELY BECAUSE OF EVERYONE1S VISITING  
CG: AND ITWAS A NIC ECHALK SMELLING HUG.  
CG: I MEAN *LIKE8.  
GC: K4RK4T  
CG: *LIEK* A NICE CHALK SMELLING HUG.  
GC: SHH JUST STOP  
GC: 4R3 YOU ON SOPOR1F1CS OR SOM3TH1NG?  
GC: DO TH3 GR3Y CULT1STS R3GUL4RLY PUT YOU UND3R SUBST4NC3S?  
CG: NO, NO.  
CG: I MEAN YES BUT NO, IM' ON ATHONG RIGHT NOW YWS BUT I'M NOT ALWALS ON SOMETHING NO.  
CG: FUCK.  
GC: >:?  
CG: OKAY TRYING AGIN.  
CG: I A NASTY CUT AND MEDICINE BUT DIVE SO MY DEXERTITTY ISSHOT TO FYCK.   
GC: K4RK4T WTF  
CG: ALSO I'M DIZZY AND CNR' ON MY FWWT.   
CG: SO I'M ON LIKE ON TAVORS ON DVI  
GC: OH MY GOD  
CG: CE.  
CG: ON A DEVICE.  
CG: LIKE TAVROS.  
CG: SORRY.  
GC: OK4Y L3T M3 S33 1F 1 GOT TH1S  
GC: YOU GOT 4 N4STY CUT 4ND TH3Y G4V3 YOU M3D1C1N3 TH4T M4K3S YOU LOOPY 4ND D1ZZY SO YOUR3 ON T4VROS WH33L3D D3V1C3  
CG: NO, I WAS'NT LOOPY ON THE MEDICINE, IT'S BECAUSE HT EMEDECINE AWAY THAT I CRASHED!  
CG: AND I'M NOT ON TAVROS HAS A NEW DEVICE!!!!  
GC: OK4Y SO YOUR3 OUT OF M3D1C1N3 4ND CR4SH3ED T4VROS' D3V1C3 B3C4US3 YOU W3R3 LOOPY W1TH P41N SO H3 GOT 4 N3W ON3?  
GC: TH4TS N1C3 FOR H1M 4T L34ST  
CG: OKAY KINDA, WHATEVERM,  
CG: HOWIS EVERYONE/  
GC: OH YOU KNOW TH3 USU4L  
GC: 3V3RYON3 4CCOUNT3D FOR  
GC: WORR13D 4BOUT YOU 4ND 4LL  
GC: 4ND CUR1OUS 4BOUT HOW YOU'R3 DO1NG 1N TH3 PL4C3 W1TH TH3 GR4Y P3OPL3 W3 S1MPLY DON'T KNOW 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT  
CG: WELL I'M OKAY, OTHER THNAN THE THING WHITH THE WHAT THE THINGN WITH THE AND ALL I'M OKAY.  
CG: IT'S LIKE SILICON.  
GC: OF COURS3  
CG: BUT THEYERVACUATING THE DARK HIVE AND CANT' TAKE ME ALONG BECAUSE I FELL LIKE A OF SHIT AN I'M NO CONDIDTONS TO RUN AROUND BEING SLINKNING IN SHADOWS LIKE I DONE ASSWHOLE FLARPIGN PUNGENT LITTLE PIECE OF FRAGNANT SHIT WHAT BEGNG SLICED OPEN A FUCKIGN HAM WITH POISON AND SHIT. THAT'S STEALTHJ WORK   
GC: D1D YOU JUST S4Y TH3Y WONT T4K3 YOU 4LONG B3C4US3 YOU SL1C3D 4 PO1SON3D H4M OP3N 4ND F3LL ON SH1T WH1L3 FL4RP1NG 4 N1NJ4   
CG: YES.  
CG: YES THAT IS THE THING I DID WHICH I SAID.  
CG: LOOK JUST FUCK YOU WHYES EVERYONE OFLINE:  
GC: OH TH3YR3 JUST 4SL33P 1TS PR3TTY L4T3 1N TH3 MORN1NG  
GC: GU3SS YOU WOULDNT KNOW WH4T W1TH B31NG UND3RGROUND  
CG: ..HOW DOYOU NKNOW I'M UNDERGROND?  
GC: S1111GH OK4Y YOU W1N MR TOO SH4RP TO L3T 4 S1NGL3 SL1P SL1D3 P4ST M3 V4NT4S  
GC: W3 4SK3D G4MZ33  
GC: H3 W4S 3V4S1V3 4T F1RST BUT OUR 1NT3RROG4RROT1NG COM1TT33 WOR3 H1M DOWN 3V3NTU4LLY 4ND H3 SP1LL3D SOM3 M4JOR B34NS!  
GC: 4BOUT HOW YOUR3 P4RT OF TH3 GR4Y CULT1STS 4ND HOW YOU COULD H1D3 1N TH31R TUNN3LS  
GC: 4ND  
GC: W3LL  
GC: SOM3 MOR3 4CTU4LLY  
GC: BUT 1 WONT W34R YOU DOWN T3LL1NG YOU SH1T YOU 4LR34DY KNOW  
GC: SUFF1C3 TO S4Y W3 DON'T M1ND!  
GC: 3V3N 3QU1US D1DNT M1ND H3 S41D 1T W4S 4 BLOW 4G41NST S34DW3LL3R SUPR3M4CY OR SOM3TH1NG 3QU4LLY T3RR1BL3  
CG: OH  
CG: HEHE OF COURSE  
CG: HOWIS GAMZEE  
GC: WORR13D 4BOUT YOU L1K3 1 S41D  
GC: BUT R3M4RK4BLY CONF1D3NT TH4T YOUD B3 S4F3 4MONG YOUR GR4Y BROS  
CG: OKAY  
CG: IF YOU TALK TO HIM TELL HIM  
CG: I LOVE HIM  
GC: WHO4 TH3R3!  
CG: AND I LOVE YUO  
GC: OH  
GC: 1  
GC: UH  
CG: AND I GUESS I LOVE SOLLUX TOO, AND KANAYA AND EVERYONE ESLE  
CG: THOUG SOME NOT THAT MUCH REALLY  
CG: I GUESS I JUST RELALY LIKE THEM A LOT  
CG: THEYER ALL VERY PRECIOUS AND DUMB  
CG: AND ‘IM GOING TO MISS EVERYONE SO MUCH  
GC: W41T WH4T!!  
GC: K4RK4T 1 SW34R TO GOD 1F YOU DONT CL4R1FY TH4T L4ST S3NT3NC3  
GC: 1M GO1NG TO DO SOM3TH1NG TH4T YOU W1LL R3GR3T  
CG: OKAY DAMN, SHIT THAT THERE WAS MAUBE TOO DRAMATAC, IT CAME OUT IN SUHC A DUMB WAY.  
GC: BUT 1 WONT 1N TH3 L34ST!!  
GC: >:[ ST1LL SUSP1C1OUS!  
CG: BUT THEYR'E SENDING ME OMEWHERE FOR TREATING MY BACK BECAUSE IM' TOO WEAK TO EVAUCUATE WITH EVERYONE ELSE  
GC: OK4Y TH4T SOUNDS MOR3 4CC3PT4BL3  
CG: GOT THE TRANSPORTATIZWR PRIMED UP AND ALL.  
GC: YOU M4D3 1T SOUND L1K3 YOU W3R3 JUST GO1NG 4W4Y FOR3V3R 4ND 1LL H4V3 YOU KNOW TH4T WOULD B3 UN4CC3PT4BL3!  
CG: WELL I DO'NT KNOW THE DETAULS ,I JUST KNOW THAT ITS GOT SOMETHING TO DO WIHT THE MESSENGER AND EVERYTHIGN THATS HAS TO DO WITH HIM IS A GODDANM SWIWLRING MALELSTROM OF DRAMAPUKE.  
CG: SPEAKING OF, IT LOOKS LIKE THE TRAPSPORTALIEZER IS DONE REDADY,.  
CG: CREIS A LOT IS GONNA TAKE ME AYWAY NOW.... )B:  
GC: >:[ 4WWWW GOSH DONT CRY  
GC: CONT4CT US 4G41N 4S SOON 4S YOU C4N!  
CG: WULL DP  
CG: BUEW!

You drop the portable device back into its drawer and allow Cries-a-Lot to tug your wheeled device away from the table and towards the gathering of gray shrouds. He parks your device right by Tavros', then wanders vaguely towards the other Elders. They look kind of upset. 

"What do you _mean_  insufficient fuel!?" someone squeaks. 

"We _have_  been using this same lump of uranium for a while," says the Grand Elder, not looking particularly flapped. He's sitting at a small desk, typing on his reinforced computer. The interface looks different from the usual one; it seems to be written entirely in the weird angular Cult Code. Maybe it's a new internal operational system in development. 

He hits a last key with a certain air of finality, then rises to his feet. "Step away from the platform," he says. "The Messenger is coming with extra uranium for the machine."

The Elders give the thingy a wide berth. The transpor...tizer? Transportemizer? For some reason you were pretty sure of the term for this apparatus while talking to Terezi, but now you're not sure you ever knew what it was called. In any case, you have a pretty clear line of sight to the sudden crack of light that snaps onto the platform, and to the bizarrely dressed _alien_ that replaces it. 

It's wearing brown. Not Tavros brown, but a boring, faded grayish brown in strange shapes. Kanaya would probably have something snide to say about the cut of its garb. But it's certainly broad-shouldered and thick around the torso in a way that could be very menacing in different circumstances.

It steps down from the platform and towards the Grand Elder with confident strides, exposing a row of square teeth and lifting a corner of its weirdly furred upper lip with a roguish smile. 

"Horuss, my old friend!" it says in perfect Alternian, extending a brownish, papery hand. "It's been a while!"

The Grand Elder steps forward and holds the offered hand, shaking it once.

"Jake," he says. 

The alien suddenly turns to you, its eyes crinkling behind transparent glasses. 

"And we finally get to meet again, lil' chap!" he says cheerfully, leaning down over you, and you just... sort of narrow your eyes at him, because hell if you know how to respond to _that_. At your side, Tavros makes a small aborted sound.

His skin is as papery and saggy as the oldest elders' — though not quite to Elder Plucker's level — but its color is a freaky pinkish brown. The sclera in his eyes — what little you can see of them under saggy, bushy eyebrows — is white, and the pupils are a weird, bright olive. It's like looking at a pair of fried eggs.

He raises his eyebrows at the two of you inquisitively, and then turns back around to drop a chunk of green rock on the Grand Elder's palm. 

"Well, here it is! Should last you a little longer than the previous one. I daresay the traffic is going to intensify in the foreseeable future!" He rubs his palms together. "Now gather ‘round, children, it's time to go on a _grand_  adventure!"

"Where!?" asks Tavros, his voice high and tense. 

"Oh," the alien draws back, his expansiveness reigned in. His attention focuses on the space at your side Tavros' wheelchair is probably occupying. "Well, my hive, pretty much. Or one of them, I should say, I happen to have several at hand—"

"I don't wanna go!" he says, his voice going squeaky at the end. The air moves, and your side feels suddenly empty. You assume Tavros wheeled his device backwards. Behind the Messenger, elders mutter and gesticulate at each other.

"But Summoner—" one of them says, stepping forward and raising his hands in a pacifying manner; a silky brown cloth flutters by you and lands harmlessly on the floor, and the elder steps back.

"It's _Tavros!_ " 

"Tavros," says the Grand Elder, his voice as deep and serious as when he's breaking down a squabble; as usual when he brings out that tone of voice, the bustle immediately dies down. "The Messenger is a trusted ally with access to medical equipment and techniques in a location unknown to the Empire. His people don't practice culling, and can heal wounds and diseases our culture never bothered to develop treatment for. He can easily heal Karkat, and he can probably heal your legs."

An involuntary twitch runs down the whole length of your body. 

"Hold your horses," says the Messenger, laying his hand somewhere on the vicinity of the Grand Elder's elbow and tugging him back. "Young man, such promises are not to be made lightly! I can guarantee Karkat's laceration, which is why he's off to get our five-star treatment. But my staff will need a set of X-rays and an MRI before any such claims can be made about Mr. Nitram's set of walkers. Even then," he turns to Tavros, "on the best case, it'll be a whole sweep before we put you back on your feet, young man, and that's the truth of it." The look on his face is incredibly serious, severe even. "Healing takes time. It absolutely must not be hurried."

You turn your neck until you feel tugging at your back, desperate to see the look on Tavros' face, but all you see is the tip of a horn before little black puffs start encroaching into your sight. _Goddammit_. 

The silence stretches uncomfortably. There's a small shuffle of cloth before Tavros speaks again.

"My friends don't even know if we're alive," he says, his voice weak and pained, and guilt and worry grasp at your chest before you finally remember that, no, you just talked to Terezi, and you probably mentioned Tavros to her, didn't you? You open your mouth to tell him, but your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth and you can't seem to be able to pull it down. "Maybe— maybe this is my one chance, but—"

" _Nonsense!_ " says the Messenger, his voice as deep and reverberating as the Grand Elder's. His shoulders are set, chest thrown out, chin raised, eyes bright. "Absolutely _not!_  Never your last chance, my dear. Your have options, you most definitely have choices." 

And then he deflates, and approaches the two of you; he kneels on the floor with some effort and muttering, leaning on your chair and turning it around in the same movement so you can see both Tavros' confused, tear-streaked face, and his own twinkly-eyed little grin.

"This is not a farewell, okay? It's just a vacation. And if you don't feel ready to go, don't go. Readying yourself is also a part of healing, so take your time!" He slaps Tavros' knee. "When they reopen the Dark Hive, the transportalizer is going to be sitting right there waiting for you anyway. And even if it takes some time, it's not like you'll have to just sit and wait— where's Lizzie? Lizzie, my dear," he looks around himself, and the youngest elder waves happily from the Elder crowd, her hood slipping over the sawed stump of her horns. "There you are! Remember those strength building exercises?" A nod. "There you have it," he turns back to Tavros, whose face is starting to take on that look of disbelief cultists get when you try to strike a conversation with them. "You get a headstart on that, talk to your friends, breathe easy for a while. When you're ready, just send out the word and we'll be there. No stress, no worries, no pressure. Take. Your. Time."

He wiggles his lip fur in a vaguely humorous manner, and Tavros cracks a small smile. Then, after a nod and a last knee-pat, he stands up with a grunt and turns to you. 

"And as for you, young man... why, but you seem to be gone half past the riverbend already! Off we go, there's a good lad. Don't worry, Tavros, I'll make sure he's in good hands and in good company until our get-together is in full motion!"

He lifts you from the wheelchair — what's with all these deceptively strong old people — and walks back to the transportalizer, chattering all the while.

"Alright, I'll upload daily reports for the first two weeks, then shift to weekly when he's back to grumping around as usual. In return, Lizzie, I'll want reports too, you know where to send them, and Horuss, do tell when the rest of the twelve have gathered, I'm sure they're mobilizing right as we speak. Chauss, you have the symbols, right? Good. This is it then, until the connection is back up. See you all soonish!"

The air snaps and sparks white around you; before the spots in your eye are halfway faded you already feel hands tugging away your shawl, picking at the threading holding your belt in place. 

You're set back on your feet, but several pairs of hands hold you steady as you struggle with your vertigo. You finally focus, sort of, on your surroundings; the air smells like the cult's infirmary, only sharper and colder, and the walls are green. It seems to be a wide block, and you think those are doors, and there's a sign on the wall with a logo in Cult Code, but the writing is gibberish. You do recognize the blinking numbers on it, but you have no idea what they mean.

Your robe clacks merrily as it's lifted over your head, blocking your sight and brutally diminishing the amount of reality holding you down; you're horizontal when you can see again, and the ceiling over your head is clattering past in a blur with a sound like many hurried voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is it! Two years of writing, planning and bickering about which punctuation should go where. Once again, a bajillion thanks to Kaossparrow for patiently enduring my constant poking, to Cygnahime and StarcrossedSky for their support, ideas-bouncing and fact-checking, and for all the readers who were so excited about this AU. What a trip this was! And as you can surely tell by now, there'll be more to come. Oh, yes. Much more.
> 
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> Don't forget to read the Intermission!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tea and Scones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999027) by [Kwizzic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kwizzic/pseuds/Kwizzic)




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